A Bit Unhealthy
by Anna Fugazzi
Summary: Post-DH George Weasley/Angelina Johnson, prompted by Rowling's saying of the pairing that "maybe it's a bit unhealthy, but I think that they would've been happy." A writing challenge if I ever saw one.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** God help me, I've started writing het. And not just any het, oh no. George Weasley/Angelina Johnson het. ::despairing eye-roll:: Couldn't help it; Rowling paired them, I thought it was one of the dumbest things I'd ever heard of, then read something she said about the pairing... and just like that, a plotbunny was born. I've been beating it down for some months, but it just wouldn't die.

This can be read as a sequel to Hermafrosts, or independently. No need to read the one to understand the other ;)

**ooo000ooo**

**A Bit Unhealthy**

She makes him feel sorry for Fred, and he's not sure, at the time or later, whether he wants to thank her or curse her for that. He does neither.

He's been busy thinking absolutely nothing, letting his mind sit blankly while he kneels by his brother and feels the skin on his cheek get colder and colder and watches their mother sobbing onto his chest. He's vaguely registered the arrival of the rest of his family, and Lee, and had hazy thoughts about how unreal this situation feels. Has felt stirrings of fear over the pain that's surely in store for them all. Already he's gone through at least sixteen repetitions of "Damn, have to tell Fred--" followed by the sharp slap of realization that he can't and won't tell Fred anything. Ever. There's no ending that thought with "as soon as we go home." Or "as soon as I figure out where the hell he's got to" or "as soon as Mum isn't there to overhear." The thought of how many more of these moments are in store for him is rather horrifying, if he lets himself think about it. Which he doesn't.

Other than that he's rather numb. Surrounded by weeping family and friends, his own eyes are dry. And then Angelina appears.

She's covered in dust, and bears marks of some odd curse that's left smoking stripes on her skin over one arm. She sees Fred lying still on the floor and her eyes widen and then meet George's, and she sways in place, sorrow chasing horror across her face, and her tears well up and over so quickly it's fascinating. And she looks like she doesn't want to intrude on their family but she's devastated, and without thinking twice he's motioning at her to come join them. Angelina does, and sinks to the floor beside him, staring at Fred's peaceful features, and sobs shake her entire body.

She's crying for Fred. Brokenly, despairingly. This is not a girl crying over a mere friend, or a mere ex, or even a mere friend with benefits, as she and Fred have only very recently become. She's weeping over a loss that goes much deeper than that. Fred, she's in love with you, you berk, George almost opens his mouth to say, and Fred just lies there.

He'll never know.

And suddenly it hits George, the enormity of all that Fred has lost. Fred will never know that the girl he loves so much, loves him right back. He'll never get to ask her out properly again after the war, never try to make them into more than just friends with benefits, never ask her to marry him. He'll never get married, never have children, never do any of the thousands of things he dreamed of doing. Twenty is so impossibly young to have all of that suddenly snatched away forever.

He reaches out and pulls Angelina close, and she clings to him and all of a sudden he's crying too, not just for himself but for Fred, for Angelina, for all of them, and it feels like he and Angelina are trying to anchor each other as best they can, but it's not enough; nothing could ever be enough.

**ooo000ooo**

The first time she laughs after the battle is at Fred's funeral. Which seems fitting somehow. In the middle of a glowing recitation of Fred's many achievements, there's a loud bark of laughter followed by Sh!! and everyone looks around. And there's Angelina, covering her mouth, staring at the floor, obviously mortified but still very obviously trying to stifle laughter, and George is beside her looking a bit embarrassed but also highly amused. Percy, biting his lip, tries to give George a big-brother glare, and then Angelina hiccups - loudly. A slightly hysterical giggle escapes Percy, which sets off Lee, and all four of them struggle to get themselves under control as the funeral director stares at them in disbelief.

He turns to the grieving parents, not sure how to deal with this - and finds them inexplicably beaming smiles through their tears.

He blinks a few times, then, with a stern glare at the small group of gigglers, picks up where he left off.

Ginny corners the four of them during the reception. "What the _hell_ was that all about?" she hisses angrily at Angelina, who bites her lip and looks away.

George shakes his head quickly. "Wasn't her fault, Gin. I said something stupid."

"What was it?" Ginny demands. George trades a hesitant glance with Percy, but Lee chuckles and answers her.

"It was right after the bloke in black said 'And what would Fred say to all of us right now, if he were still alive?'"

"Yeah?"

"George said, 'Let me out of this box, you daft plonkers, I'm not dead!'"

**ooo000ooo**

They spend a lot of time together, before and after the funeral. Somehow they're good for each other. Her grief is different from his, but there are many similarities. Fred was the 'other half' for both of them. She didn't spend nearly as much time with him as George did, obviously, but it seems that she thought of a future with him, as George did. Now they're both rethinking their futures, and their pasts, and trying to survive the present without going insane. They cry together, laugh together, share stories of Fred. They commiserate over stupid things they've heard recently - inane glowing epitaphs, pat condolences, sentimental drivel. George doesn't know what he'd do without her. His family's supportive, despite their own grief, and so is Lee, but he _needs_ Angelina, and she seems to need him. It's like as long as she's there, he can keep it together.

Besides, Fred asked him to take care of her, if anything happened to him. So far it's more like Angelina's taking care of him, most of the time, but that's all right too.

She and Lee join the family when George goes back to Wheezes for the first time. It's been sitting abandoned since the day Bill warned all the Weasleys to go into hiding, and it's obvious the place was broken in to. There are feathers, neon lingerie, and bat droppings all over the place. George takes grim satisfaction from the evidence that many of their booby traps, meant for Death Eaters in case they ever had to flee, did their jobs well. Annoying as it is to clean out the detritus, the pleasure of imagining what happened to the Death Eaters who raided their place is worth it. Assuming any of them survived the final battle of Hogwarts, their stench may have lessened by now, but the lacy kelly-green pubic hair should be permanent. He wonders what the guards in Azkaban think of it.

We did it, Fred, he wants to tell him, but settles for sharing a bittersweet laugh about it with Lee.

He goes up the back stairs, to their flat, alone. He says it's because there's more traps there, but that's just an excuse, and everyone knows it. It's silly, in a way, because the flat was just the place where they stored their clothing and extra inventory. Where they collapsed, exhausted, at the end of the day. The shop felt more like home than the flat ever did. But the shop was public. The flat was the one place where they, a pair of raging extroverts if ever there was one, kept the tiny bit of themselves that wasn't on display for the world to see.

The flat doesn't feel so bad. Fred's absence isn't nearly as strong here, and it's not overwhelming or disturbing or any of what he didn't want to face with other people around. He calls downstairs, tells them the traps are disarmed, and his mother comes upstairs. It's all right. Eventually Lee comes up too. Again, fine. Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Percy, no problem.

Then Angelina comes upstairs and he has to make a sudden trip to the loo or risk losing it in front of everybody. Again. The look on her face, the tears, the idea that she was supposed to come up here again with _Fred_, not him, after everything was over...

He might make it through this, though, he thinks as he splashes cold water on his face. He just might. His family, who probably feared for his life or sanity, seem relieved. Of course he's less cheerful, of course he's off-balance, of course his humour is somewhat dimmed. More than half of him _died_; he'll never be the same again. But life will go on, and he's determined to meet it head-on. Some days it feels like every breath aches, and he's appalled at how needy he's become, but it's all right. After all, having only five siblings left still leaves a lot of siblings. Throw in his parents, Angelina, and Lee, who's asked to move into the flat with some lame story about rent being too high in Diagon, and George is never with any one person long enough for any of them to realize he's terrified of being alone.

**ooo000ooo**

It all falls apart one night when they've been drinking somewhat more heavily than usual - though not by much - and Angelina finally acknowledges the white elephant that's been having tea in the corner of every room they've been in since that day.

"I... I was in love with him," Angelina slurs tearfully. "I know - thank you, for, for putting up with... I know it's not the same - you know, the same loss as you, I'm sorry, I shouldn't - I wanted to help you, and instead you help me, you must think I'm so fucking pathetic..." she wipes at her eyes clumsily.

"No, bloody hell no," George says, and pats her comfortingly.

"It's just... I know I was just a friend to him. But." She takes a deep breath. "I was head over heels in love with him. I wanted... I hoped, I know it was stupid, he was just--" She stops, sniffles a bit. "I mean, I know he cared about me, but he wasn't - and besides after I broke up with him, he wouldn't've wanted to give me a second chance--"

"Angelina," he interrupts her, which he probably shouldn't; he's thought long and hard about whether to say anything about this, and had decided not to. And it's really not a good idea to go against a decision made while sober when you're fully pissed. "He didn't. I mean, he did. Too."

"What?" she says.

"He was in love with you. Completely." He has to look away from the mingled wonder and grief in her eyes. "Pretty embarrassed about it, too, but he couldn't help it. He was just... when it came to you he was totally helpless."

Suddenly Angelina's expression turns suspicious. "But--"

"I kept pushing him to ask you out properly," he tells her. "He was just, he couldn't--"

"But why - that last time, when I came to visit you at your aunt's, he was very sweet and I know he was glad to see me, but he never gave me the impression that he'd--"

"I know what he did. What you did," he says, and winces because that's probably not a tactful thing to mention, as it involved things that most girls like to keep private, but really it shouldn't be a shock that Fred had given George a blow-by-blow account of what had happened in Aunt Muriel's parlour. Right next to her revered, priceless, ugly stuffed flamingo. "But he just couldn't say anything. It was because of the war--"

Angelina's still skeptical. "He could fuck me, but he couldn't--"

"-and he was nervous."

"Fred was never nervous," she says flatly.

"You'd dropped him," George points out. "He didn't want you to shoot him down again; it hurt like hell the first time."

Angelina's eyes widen, and George wants to slap himself. This is going all wrong. "He didn't blame you," he says quickly. "Really, he didn't. He understood. You were probably right, he wasn't ready for anything serious when you were kids. But he wanted to be ready for more, later. After."

And then she's crying again and he feels like shit.

They are never able to remember, afterwards, which one of them made the first move. All George remembers is that one moment he's holding her and patting her back comfortingly and aching inside, and then his fingers are running through her braids, and suddenly their faces are close to each other and they gaze at each other uncertainly, and then they're kissing. Passionately. There's nothing comforting or gentle about it, and he's not really thinking of her at all any more. He's thinking only that he needs to touch her, taste her, feel her, feel _something_ that isn't grief.

She's almost certainly pretending he's Fred, he knows that. And that should repel him, he thinks vaguely. But then, he _was_ Fred, so many times - they served detentions for each other, provided alibis for each other, responded when they were called by the other's name and couldn't be bothered to correct the person addressing them...

This is different, though. He never would've pretended to be Fred doing... _this_, while Fred was still alive. Fred wouldn't have wanted him to.

Well then, maybe Fred should've stuck around to prevent it.

As it is, Angelina's unbuttoning his robes with clumsy fingers and George is trying to return the favour, having a bit of difficulty with the buttons, gasping as Angelina's fingers slip under his waistband. It's setting him on fire, even through the alcohol and grief, every move she's making is making him feel more alive than he's felt since that moment four weeks ago when he died.

He knows how to be Fred. He never thought about it while Fred was alive, but he's realized in the last few weeks that whenever he was Fred he'd automatically pitch his voice a little lower, smile a bit more, censor himself a bit less. He's noticed because not once in the last few weeks has he done any of those things.

Although he doesn't know how Fred did this, he realizes, as he slips his hand into Angelina's knickers and she moans. The principle is the same, though. Less hesitation and caution than when he's just being himself. More self-confidence. If it feels good, just do it.

Hang on. Fred's self-confidence faltered a bit when he talked about Angelina; maybe it faltered when he got into bed with her too.

Who knows. Who cares. George is too drunk and overwhelmed with the thrill of Angelina's fingers caressing him, Angelina tilting her hips and clearly wanting him inside her. Angelina's probably not in any state to notice the difference.

Besides, this is probably the last time he'll ever be Fred. Ever, in his whole life.

**ooo000ooo**

The morning after... is not pretty.

**ooo000ooo**

**Author's Note:** The actual quote from the interview with JKR is, "... a _lot_ of readers asked me, Was George all right? And of course he _wouldn't_ be all right, would he? That's the - that's the reality, I can't... but I think that he married Angelina. Who was actually Fred's ex, so you can... maybe it's a bit unhealthy, but I think that they would've been happy. As happy as he could be without Fred, I really think he would've felt like part of himself died."

How can you _not_ take that as a challenge to write their dysfunctional little story?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much, Conny1908, flyingdaggers, HPFanFictionFan, kerplank, poohlicous and RavenclawBest for your reviews! And thank you to tree00faery for beta as well :)

**ooo000ooo**

Two months later Ron's working the register at the shop when Angelina walks in, looking rather grim.

He's immediately intrigued. She hasn't been around, not since about a month after the war. George and Lee never talk about her any more, though Ron knows that Lee gets together with her every now and then. She spots George. George is helping a small child with a broken toy and Ron was just thinking he's pretty good at that kind of thing and then Angelina's there and George finishes with the child, eyeing her warily. She says something to him and they go into the office, and Ron doesn't have time to wonder what the hell that's all about because less than two customers later she's walking out of the office and out of the shop. Ron glances over to the office door and sees George, his face pale and blank, leaning against the door of his office and watching her leave. George's eyes pass over him and Ron can tell he hasn't registered who he's looking at, and then George slowly makes his way to the back of the shop and up the stairs to the flat. Ron hears his footsteps speed up and hurries after him, not caring that the shop is full of customers. Verity can handle them.

As he reaches the flat he can hear retching sounds from the bathroom. Holy fuck, thinks Ron. He rushes to the bathroom and flings the door open, and finds George heaving, his hands shaking as they hold on to the porcelain.

"What the fuck?" Ron begins, and George waves him off weakly. Ron ignores him; George always wants people to go away these days, and if they paid any attention to that he'd be alone all the time and depressed, so instead they probably overcrowd him but hey, it works; he's quiet and subdued and often looks miserable, but he could've been doing a lot worse. Ron quickly gets a facecloth wet and kneels down, putting the cloth to George's forehead. He's been there through more than a few of George's drinking bouts in the last few months, and George has been there for some of Ron's, and they've become used to this routine.

"What the fuck happened?" Ron asks as the retching starts to die down, and George shakes his head. "Come on, George. You're not hung-over and you weren't in the testing room. Something happened with Angelina. Don't make me call Mum." George closes his eyes and heaves once more.

Ron waits till George is done, then cleans him up and asks again. George lets him know in no uncertain terms and no few expletives that it's really none of Ron's business.

They go back to work, but George is completely off. Ron has to get his attention several times and at one point he finds himself weighing whether or not sending George to the lab to get him away from the customers would be worth the risk of having him blow the place up. He decides to just let George muddle through, and finds various menial tasks for him to do.

"George, we're low on Snackboxes."

"Oi, could you get the mail?"

"Spill in the Aisle of Man," he calls out after upending a box of Macho Nachos. He figures it's better for customer relations to have only himself and Verity dealing with customers, rather than letting the customers see George is so completely out of it that he can barely explain his own products, let alone get any of the customers' jokes.

Finally the day is over without major catastrophe. Ron finishes re-stocking Groaning Gummies and makes his way upstairs, where he's asked George if he can kip over the next couple of days. Ostensibly he's here because Auror Training is going through morning exercises and he wants to be close to the Ministry. Really it's because Lee told him he'd be gone for a week.

"George, you going to finish that?" Ron asks, hungrily eying the overly soft carrots still left on George's plate. All attempts at small talk during supper have foundered - not that George is all that much into conversation these days anyway - and Ron's taken out his books and settled down to study interrogation techniques while George goes over accounts for the shop.

George passes his plate over absently, and Ron goes back to studying, idly munching on the carrots as he reads. He's deep into Veritaserum side-effects when George suddenly breaks his silence.

"She's pregnant."

"Who's that?" Ron asks distractedly, still struggling to understand why goldenrod plays such havoc on the truth-telling capacity of Veritaserum and vaguely wondering about using goldenrod in Wheeze's Tall Tales Toffees.

"Angelina."

Ron looks up. "What?"

George's staring down at his parchment of figures. "Angelina's pregnant."

Ron stares at him. For a moment, he literally can't make sense of it. Angelina? Pregnant? How? Who? George has put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, and Ron's totally lost.

"Angelina? Quidditch Angelina? Pregnant?" George nods. Ron's mind suddenly adds one plus one and he's stunned. "And it's yours," he says flatly, as suddenly a lot of things make sense. George's reaction to her visit this morning. The way she suddenly disappeared from his life a few months ago. The way George and Lee didn't talk about her any more. The way George had withdrawn from everybody, all of a sudden, at the same time as Angelina disappeared.

Shit.

George seems dazed. "Yeah. She thinks so."

"She just thinks she's pregnant?"

"Got a test done a week ago."

Ron blinks, a bit confused. "Shit. What's she going to do?"

"She's not sure. She's thinking about ending it."

"The pregnancy?"

"Yeah."

Ron can't imagine what else to say; this is all too surreal. "But do you - I mean, do you want her to, or do you want--"

"Doesn't matter what I want."

"'Course it matters," Ron says indignantly. "It's your kid too." He and George give a small start as the Floo activates, and moments later, Percy's walking into the kitchen, absently dusting ash off his robes.

"George, are you ready?"

George blinks at him, lost. "For what?"

"We're supposed to be going over to the Apothecary distributor. Remember?" Percy is patience itself these days - at least with George. "I told you last Monday. Don't worry, you don't have anything else on your schedule, I made sure." He waves his wand over their dishes and they float over to the sink. "You should probably put on something else." George looks down at his potion-stained Weird Sisters t-shirt. "The Apothecary's a little particular."

"I..."

"Merlin, George, don't you ever use cleaning charms?" Percy says, glancing askance at the rather dingy magenta and aqua kitchen. "And Ron, you're not living at home, George isn't Mum, you've got to do your part around here too." He quickly waves his wand at some of the crustier plates sitting around the flat, sending them to the sink, spots a lime green WWW testing goblet in the exodus and plucks it out of the air. "Is this the new base for the Amphi-beans?"

"Erm. Yeah," George says.

Percy takes a small sip, then quickly spits it back into the cup. "It's not going to turn me into a newt, is it?" he asks.

George shakes his head and Percy only hesitates a moment before taking another sip. Now, that's not right, Ron thinks; Percy trusts one of George's ingredients on just his say-so. If Fred were here...

"It's much better than the last one," Percy says appreciatively. "Bit too sweet, but then again it's not supposed to be taken by itself." He nods approvingly, then finally seems to sense something amiss.

"What's wrong?" Percy asks, looking from Ron to George.

They hesitate, and then George sits back with a resigned sigh and motions to Ron. "Go ahead."

"He got Angelina Johnson pregnant," Ron says bluntly.

"He got who what?"

"Angelina Johnson," says George.

"Pregnant," says Ron.

"Who did?"

Ron nods towards George.

Percy blinks. "You?" George looks away, and Percy jaw drops. "You're joking."

"Wish I was."

"No, you don't joke much any more." Percy pulls out a chair and sits down heavily. "What happened?"

"We slept together."

"Thanks, I figured that out, Dad had The Talk with me too. When? What happened? And how long have you been worried about this, and hang on wasn't Angelina Fred's--"

"I _wasn't_ worried. I didn't even know. She came by today and told me."

"Why didn't you say you two were, erm--"

"Because we _weren't_. It was just once. Two months ago. We were drunk."

"Oh fuck," Percy says wearily, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

Ron's not sure he's ever heard Percy swear before.

"So what happened?" Percy asks, settling his glasses again.

George shakes his head. "I don't really remember much, to be honest, we were both so drunk. I don't remember how we got to my bedroom. And the next day, she - she woke up first and I suppose she saw the Winbourne Wasps poster and realized, you know, wrong team, wrong twin." He runs a hand through his hair and Percy blanches.

"So she _was_ with..."

"She was with Fred before, yeah. Sort of. Not really, not officially. They were - he, he wanted to ask her out properly after the war was over, but."

"Oh, shit," says Percy softly.

"And then I woke up," says George. "And she already had her clothes on and she was crying and, and - I tried to touch her, just to - but she, she was so - you should've seen how she looked at me, fuck, it was--" George's voice roughens and he breaks off, covering his eyes with one hand.

"Merlin. George." Percy puts a hand on George's trembling shoulder. "What are you going to do?" he asks after a few moments.

"I don't know," George manages to say.

"Does she want you involved?"

"Fuck no," George says, and sits up, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes, back in control. "Why would she?"

"It's your child too," Percy says quietly.

George shakes his head. "I think the fact that she hates me now sort of outweighs that."

"Why would she hate you?"

"You didn't see her. And why shouldn't she? I took advantage of her, I--"

"You'd _both_ been drinking!" Ron protests.

"I was supposed to look after her. Fred asked me to, if anything happened to him, and maybe I should've asked for clarification but I'm almost certain he didn't mean 'please get her up the duff after a one-nighter if you can.'"

"You - she used you, George," says Percy. "You said yourself, she didn't want you, she wanted Fred, and she knew you were drunk and--"

"I was drunk, not brain-dead, Perce," George says scornfully. "It wasn't exactly difficult to figure that out. I just didn't care. Some friend."

Ron and Percy share a troubled glance. "And you... you haven't talked to her since then?" says Percy.

"No. Lee's been to see her. I asked him to, the next day."

"What for?" asks Ron.

George rolls his eyes. "To talk about the new WonderWitch line. What do you think? Fred asked me to take care of her. I was trying to. She was pretty upset when she left."

"What did she say to him?"

"Didn't want to talk about it. Just said she wanted to pretend it never happened." He shrugs. "At least we agreed on that much."

"So that's why she disappeared." Ron heaves a sigh. "I'd sort of wondered."

"Yeah. She told Lee she didn't ever want to see my face again." Percy makes a small noise in his throat, and George shrugs again. "She told him it wasn't even about that night, so much; only I look too much like Fred."

Ron forces himself not to flinch. He's not the only one, then, who's had to work hard not to blame George for the jolt Ron still feels sometimes when he sees him and momentarily forgets that Fred's gone. "That's not fair."

"Think Angelina's the only one who feels that way?" George says bitterly, and Percy's eyes meet Ron's for a brief, guilty moment. "I've seen the way everyone looks at me. Even Mum and Dad. Like for a moment they think he's alive. And then they realize it's just _me_."

"George..." Ron begins, but can't think of anything else to say.

"Feels like a kick in the bollocks, every single time," George says grimly. "Angelina was one of the only people who never did that. Until that night."

Damn it, Angelina, thinks Ron. You absolute _bitch_.

Which probably isn't fair. Angelina's hurting, they all are, and Ron has gathered the war was hard on her too, what with being Muggleborn, but... if there's anybody who doesn't need any more grief now that the war is over, it's George.

"What are you going to tell Mum and Dad?" asks Percy quietly.

"Oh God," George groans and covers his eyes. "I don't know. Mum'll go mental..."

"Well then maybe get Dad to tell her," says Percy practically. "Though this isn't exactly a ringing endorsement of your readiness to be a father, what with you still being scared of your own mum."

"Don't remind me," George says, his voice muffled. "I'm _not_ ready."

**ooo000ooo**

"You're joking," says Dad two days later.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" George blows out his breath impatiently. "Do I look like I'm laughing?" The rest of the family is open-mouthed, except for Percy and Ron and Lee. This topic was supposed to be worked up to after the Sunday dinner pudding, not blurted out in the middle of the soup.

"I take it this wasn't planned," Ginny says, striving for an even tone. Not an easy task, after your brother has answered "Making anything new in the lab, George?" with "No, only in Angelina. She's pregnant."

George grimaces. "Oh, no, we both decided this would be the perfect time to start a family. What with things being so peaceful and settled and joyful all around."

"When did you find out?" asks Bill.

"Two days ago." George glances around the table uncomfortably. "Sorry to, erm, drop it on everyone like that," he mutters.

"George. Oh Georgie," Mum says, and there are tears in her eyes. She stands and moves to his chair, hugging him close. He closes his eyes and rests his head against her as she strokes his hair. "What... how..." she shakes her head and hugs him closer. "Are you all right? Is she all right?"

George shrugs uncomfortably. "She's not terribly happy about it. And she's... she's not happy with me."

Mum frowns. "Were you in charge of the precautions? For heaven's sake, potions and charms do fail sometimes--"

"Erm... it didn't come up, to be honest."

Mum pulls away slightly and peers down at him. "What?"

George squares his shoulders. "We didn't. Take any precautions, that is."

Mum's mouth drops open. "Why not?!" she finally asks.

George shakes his head. "We were both drunk, Mum. That's the only reason anything happened between us in the first place."

"Being drunk is _no_ excuse!" Mum snaps. "Have you been careless this whole time?"

"No but--"

"I should hope not! We taught you better than that!"

"Molly," says Dad. "Please, what's done is done."

Mum ignores him and glares at George. "If you could manage to stay out of trouble before, why--"

"Because I'd never slept with anyone else, all right?" George snaps. "It was my first time. And believe me, I'm very seriously considering making it my last."

Ron's breath catches in his throat. George's first time, drunk and grieving and with a girl he didn't want and didn't love, who certainly didn't want or love him back, and had probably been thinking of somebody else the entire time.

Hermione's hand steals into his. He has never been so grateful for her presence in his life - except possibly all those times when she saved his life and Harry's.

Mum finally breaks the silence. "Georgie..." she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Dad clears his throat. "So. Erm. What are you going to do?"

"Don't know."

"Have you talked about getting married?"

"Merlin's balls, no," George says, almost physically flinching from the suggestion.

"It's not that outlandish an idea," says Mum defensively. "People used to get married as a matter of course when they got pregnant by accident."

"Even if I wanted to... it sure as _hell_ wouldn't be with Angelina Johnson."

"Why not?"

George blows out his breath. "Be serious, Mum. She's - she _was_ just a friend. I wasn't the one who was hoping to marry her someday. Fred was."

Ron's eyebrows shoot up and he glances around the table, gathering from the stunned looks all around that, except for Lee, none of the rest of them even suspected Fred had hoped for any such thing.

"Is she going to keep the baby?" Dad asks quietly.

"I don't know," says George.

"What did you tell her you wanted?"

"Didn't say anything."

"Why not?"

"Because she didn't ask, and I doubt she wants to know anyway."

Mum frowns. "But you're the father, you've got certain rights under the law--"

George shakes his head. "I don't have any rights."

"But if you're--"

"She's not sure," George interrupts her.

"Not sure of what?"

"That I'm the father."

There's a profound silence. Lee has put down his spoon and is staring at the tablecloth, a shuttered expression on his face.

"Sorry, what?" says Ron.

"She's not completely sure it's mine," says George evenly. "Odds are, it is, but she's not sure."

Ron feels a bit sick. "So she... Merlin, that's..." He stops, not wanting to say how he feels right now about the woman who may one day - fairly soon - be the mother of his first niece or nephew.

These last few months have been like a crash course in learning how different individuals deal with grief; some people drink, some withdraw from the world, some bury themselves in work, some cling to their family and friends. And some - Hannah Abbott, for example - take to having sex with anyone who'll have them. If Angelina was depressed enough to turn to George, of all people, how many other--

"Really. And how many other men could be the father?" Mum asks, her voice trembling with disapproval now.

"Just one."

"Just one," Mum repeats. "Well. How charming. And what about the other gentleman in question? What does he think?"

"Not a lot," George says heavily.

"She hasn't told him, then. Wonderful. Why not?!"

"She can't."

"Why not?!" Mum asks angrily. "Does she even know the bastard's name?"

George starts to laugh, but there's a tinge of hysteria in it and the rest of them share looks of alarm. All except for Lee, who's shaking his head and pressing his lips together. "No, I'm sorry," George says, trying to stop laughing, "it's just... you have no idea how funny that is. Come on, Lee, you have to admit..." Lee still doesn't look amused at all, and George sighs as his humour fades. "All right, maybe not." He runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, she knows the bastard's name. And if we could manage to tell him, a lot of things would be very different, believe me. And you shouldn't call him a bastard, because he isn-- he _was_n't. You were married when Fred was born, right?"

Mum's eyes widen.

"Yeah, the other gentleman in question," George says bitterly. "She was with him a week before he died, at Aunt Muriel's, and then with me a month after the battle. Five weeks apart, and she didn't get her period in between. She thinks it's mine, but it's possible it could be Fred's."

Ron's not sure the Weasley kitchen has ever been as still as it is right now.

What is there to say, really?

Arthur clears his throat first. "Well." He clears it again. "Well, then, there's a test she can do, to determine--"

"She won't do it. She doesn't want me involved. If she does the test and I'm the father--"

"But you should be involved!" says Ginny. "Otherwise she could just end it without you being able to--"

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione speaks up for the first time. "Are you actually saying that a wizard can _force_ a witch to bear his child, if he's the father?!"

"Yes," says Bill. "Sometimes. I know it's different in the Muggle world, and I know it probably sounds barbaric to you, but wizards have had fairly reliable contraception for centuries, and we've been trying to keep our numbers up for almost as long." Hermione opens her mouth and Bill gives her a pained look. "Hermione, I'll be happy to talk to you about the differences between Muggle and wizarding reproductive rights, later. Not right now."

Hermione closes her mouth and sits back, frowning.

"George," Ginny begins, "you have a right to--"

"No I don't."

Lee shakes his head but doesn't say anything, crossing his arms and looking away.

"George," Arthur says gently, "the law that says you need to be the father to have a say in your child's life wasn't meant for wizards who are willing to acknowledge their children. It was written so that no witch could make a wizard take responsibility for a child that wasn't his--"

"And so that no wizard could force a witch to bear his child if she didn't want to acknowledge him as its father," George interrupts. "It was written to discourage wizards from sleeping with witches who might not let them be involved in their children's lives. It was written for people like me."

Percy clears his throat. "Could you make her take the test?"

"He might be able to," Lee finally speaks up. "And I told him that yesterday. He won't."

"Why not?" asks Percy.

"I'd have to get the Wizengamot involved," says George. "D'you really think I want to explain what happened in court? Have all of it in official records at the Ministry?" He shakes his head. "Not a chance. I wouldn't do that to her. Or to Fred."

**ooo000ooo**

Angelina shows up at the shop five weeks later.

George has been baffled by how little his life has changed since her last visit. He works, he spends time with Lee, he has dinner at the Burrow on weekends. He tries to think about his life as little as possible, tries not to drink too much too often. He's heard from Lee that Angelina's living at her mother's and has left her apprenticeship at the Isle of Man animal Healer's. Apparently commuting by Floo to and from the Isle and London isn't good for the baby.

Which, he gathers, means that she's planning on keeping it. He has no idea how he feels about that.

He doesn't spend much time trying to figure it out; Angelina hasn't asked how he feels anyway.

She's looking far less... brittle than she did when she first came to his shop to tell him their happy news. She stands hesitantly at the door of the shop while he finishes with a customer - though he has no idea what the hell the customer's talking about and suspects later that he gave him Swan Sweeties instead of Canary Creams, and charged him a three Knuts instead of three Sickles - and she doesn't look angry as he cautiously draws nearer.

"Can I talk to you in the office?" she asks quietly, and he nods and leads her inside.

The dark blue robes she's wearing show a slight but visible swell over her belly. He looks away.

The morning after they slept together her voice was shaking with grief and regret and disgust at both of them. Five weeks ago her voice was hard and cold. Now it's very quiet.

"I don't know if Lee's told you," she begins, perching on the edge of the squashy purple and marigold yellow chair in the office. "But I'm going to keep the baby."

George swallows hard, and nods. There's a terrifically uncomfortable silence.

"D'you want me to--" he begins, and she shakes her head quickly.

"I'm not here to ask anything of you. Or... or to give you anything, if that's how you think of it." She takes a deep breath. "I got myself into this mess. This is my responsibility. And you and I... I can't have you involved when I don't even know if you're the father. And when we're not together. I just came here because I thought you deserved to know."

Her tone isn't harsh, though the words are. George nods, feeling completely hollow.

"My Mum's going to help me take care of it."

George frowns. From what he's heard, from Fred and Lee and Angelina herself in the first few weeks after the battle, Angelina's mum isn't the most patient woman in the world, has little knowledge of the magical world, and little understanding - or desire to understand - how deeply it wounded Angelina.

"I told her about you," Angelina continues. "I told her we weren't together, and that you were still... still dealing with losing Fred too. And that you weren't ever keen on babies anyway."

He nods. There's another painful silence, broken only by the scratch of an escaped Nosy Niffler at the door, and a sudden high-pitched gibbering followed by an exasperated shout from the shop. He'll have to ask Fr-_Ron_ to move the Chocolate Monkey Bars up higher on the shelf, he thinks vaguely. That's the third kid turned into a Howler Monkey this week.

"All right, then," she says, and stands up, moving to the door.

He suddenly realizes he needs to say something, make something clear. "Erm. Angelina." She turns back. "You. Erm." He swallows again. "If you change your mind..."

He doesn't know what else to say. She knows him. Neither he nor Fred ever had the slightest interest in procreating, not for a few decades at least.

Then again, neither did Angelina.

"If you change your mind, I can try. To help, that is. With the baby. If you need anything, just ask."

She nods, and it's somewhat gratifying that instead of being shocked, it seems she had expected something like this from him.

Which is interesting. He hadn't really expected it of himself.

She's about to leave, but she turns back. "You know..." she begins hesitantly, "I decided to keep it, a few weeks ago. And... I didn't know what to say to you. I thought... I was still angry with you, but then I thought of... of Fred."

He doesn't know what to make of that, so he says nothing.

"Whether I'm carrying your child or his, he would've been so disappointed in me," she says, her voice low. "For... for treating you the way I did. And not just after I found out about the baby. For... turning to you when I really wanted him instead."

George looks away from her, his throat tight. "He would've been disappointed in me too," he says quietly. "Because." He takes a deep breath. "Because I knew that's what you were doing. And I let you."

Angelina nods. "I figured you did. I wanted to be angry with you, for taking advantage of me when I'd been drinking, but you had been too. I... I shouldn't have been blaming you. It was both of us."

George nods cautiously.

"So... how are you doing?" she asks him, and he's startled.

"Erm. Fine. Fine, all right. How are you?"

"I've missed you," she says softly.

He gazes at her and doesn't know what to say.

He's not as good with women as he once thought he was, he's realized over the last few months. He remembers when talking to girls seemed so bloody simple. If they were your friends, you flirted with them in a joking fashion and then if they picked up, great, and if they didn't, that was all right too. If you didn't know them, you were more direct, but it was also easy and fun. Not as easy or fun as it seemed to be for Fred, but nothing like how it's been since Fred died.

He doesn't really know how to do so very much in his life, without Fred.

"I've... missed you too," he finally says.

She comes closer and takes his hand in hers. "Is it getting any easier? Being alone?"

He gazes at their clasped hands for a long moment. They touched unselfconsciously so many times in the weeks between the battle and that last disastrous night, comforting each other physically without a second thought. He's missed this. He's missed being touched. Without Fred in his life, nudging him to share a joke, shoving him out of the way when he was in a hurry, clapping him on the back when they got a product right - and without Angelina around to hug or to comfort him, he sometimes feels as though nobody's touched him in years.

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Hard to tell. In a way, yeah, it's easier, but in a way..." he trails off. She's gazing at him seriously, and he doesn't know why but he can talk to her in a way that he can't talk to Lee, or to his family, or anyone else. "I'm getting used to it, to him not being here. But it doesn't feel any better." She nods slowly. "'Sbeen so bloody long since I heard his voice, since I had somebody understand what I meant-" He has to stop. This isn't what he wants to be doing, not when she's only just come back. Not when she's dealing with a lot more than he is. She doesn't comment as a tear slips down his face.

"It's not better for me either," she says softly. "It's not. It feels like everybody thinks if they just _say_ it's all better, it'll _be_ all better, but it's not. And I keep crying..."

"You're pregnant," George says gently. "You're bound to be a little--"

"That's not it, though. I don't think." She puts her hand on her stomach absently. "It's just--" and then a look of surprise steals across her face.

"What is it?"

"It's..." she looks at him, suddenly shy. "D'you want to feel? The midwitch says it's a little early, but..."

"Feel what? The baby?" He's caught flat-footed. "Oh. Erm. Yeah, all right." He tentatively puts his hand where she shows him on the bulge at her middle, feeling a bit squeamish, and something ripples under his palm. His eyebrows go up. "Was that..."

"Yeah." She smiles, a soft, private smile, and his heart constricts a little.

Whether it's his or Fred's doesn't matter. What matters is that there's life, right under Angelina's robes, growing, not aware that it's coming into a world that's been full of sorrow and fear for so long.

He suddenly realizes he's smiling, and is almost startled out of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much, dracosoftie, My Secret Pleasure, poohlicous, yukka, flyingdaggers, RavenclawBest and HPFanFictionFan for your reviews! And thank you to breve for beta as well :)

**ooo000ooo**

Of all the stupid things George has done in his life, sleeping with Angelina Johnson definitelyf rates as the very stupidest. And yet somehow they fare slowly working past it. Their old camaraderie is gone and over and he deeply regrets that, but she's started to drop by the shop for a bit every few days. They're slowly getting used to each other again.

She's bored stiff at home, he gathers. Misses her job on the Isle of Man. She's taken to shopping and watching her mum's Muggle picture box and hanging about with various girlfriends. For a girl as driven and focused as Angelina (painful memories of his brief time under her Quidditch Captaincy come to mind), it's got to be frustrating to have so little to do.

Although maybe she's also preparing for the baby. He wouldn't know. He doesn't ask. Whenever he thinks about the baby, he fills with dread and regret and shame, so he tries to think about it as little as possible. She doesn't seem to want to talk about it with him either. He can't blame her.

If only he hadn't slept with her. If it was unquestionably Fred's child she was expecting, her pregnancy might even have felt like a positive thing, as if part of Fred had lived on. And he would've wanted to be there for Fred's kid, no question, and Angelina would've probably welcomed his help.

And if it was unquestionably his own child, he'd... Merlin, he'd feel buggered six ways to Sunday and in a state of constant panic over it, but he'd be involved.

As it is, he just tries to not think about it.

He tells himself that the shop isn't really the right place to talk about the baby, either, what with hordes of people constantly coming in and out and shrieking and buzzing and clanging and small children turning into all sorts of alarming things and parents overreacting to their children turning into all sorts of alarming things.

The shop isn't the right place to talk about anything serious, really. Which is nice when Angelina first starts coming around, as they sort of overdid serious in the last few months. But eventually seeing her only in the shop starts to get on his nerves.

The fourth time she drops by, for example, she's just discovered the Emu Enemas and is laughing her head off, and he's thinking it's been a long time since he's heard any of his friends or family really laugh - or felt like joining in - when a customer barges in, loudly complaining about a runaway violent Bellatrix Pygmy Puff. He tries to put the man off, to no avail. The man's an idiot; the box very clearly said _BellaPuffs__ Are **Not** Pets_, but he's full of righteous indignation and George feels Fred's absence like a dull ache. It was bloody unnerving, they'd been told, when they stood side by side and combined finishing each others' sentences with speaking at the same time. They used it to full effect with belligerent customers, and it worked like a charm.

He can't do that any more. He tries tact, he tries reason, he tries to give the customer his money back, and then he politely suggests that the man do something physically improbable, painful, and potentially unhygienic. As the man splutters, George politely asks him to leave. And not darken his doorstep again, thank you.

By the time the idiot leaves, Angelina's got to go home. Her mum is expecting her for dinner.

The sixth time she drops by, she mentions missing her job and he hesitates for a moment and then asks her if she's going to go back to work after the baby's born. They can't exactly ignore the topic forever.

"I don't know," she says after an awkward pause. "Maybe. Mum wants me to put it in day care when it's old enough."

"Day care? I didn't know there were any wizarding ones in London."

"Muggle day care."

He doesn't really have anything else to say about that.

**ooo000ooo**

Angelina's stopped by just as the shop is closing for the day and George is getting ready to head upstairs.

"Don't you ever go out?" she asks curiously.

"Where would I go?" he asks tiredly, wiping down canary-yellow residue on a cauldron.

"Fred told me you two used to go out in the Alley after work sometimes," she says. "He missed that, when you were holed up at your aunt's."

George sighs. "Me and Fred used to be _two_ people running the shop, and we still hardly ever got out. It was bloody exhausting then. It's more so now."

"The shop's doing well, though," she says. "And I thought Ron and Percy were helping."

"They are," George admits. "A lot. And so's Lee, when he's home. Still really time-consuming, though." The cauldron sighs with satisfaction as George finishes cleaning it, and he quickly glances over all the ongoing projects, makes sure everything is secured for the night. "Besides, there's nowhere I want to go."

"Where's Lee tonight?" Angelina asks as George locks the lab for the night.

"Covering a game in Wales. Back tomorrow." And for only the second time since he moved in with George right after the war, Lee is away and neither Ron nor Percy have a suspiciously convenient excuse to ask to stay at his flat. He's not sure whether to be amused, relieved, or saddened.

"Can I come up?" asks Angelina.

"Oh. Erm. Sure."

They go upstairs, and he putters about getting her tea and something light to eat. It strikes him that perhaps he ought to know what pregnant women like to eat, but he doesn't. It also strikes him that they're chatting a little too politely, and he wonders at it. Though their friendship was undeniably strained almost to breaking, this stilted carefulness between them has been wearing down recently in the shop. What's going on, then?

Possibly the fact that this is the first time she's been up here since... well.

He gets her some biscuits and a herbal tea he knows she likes, then glances around the living room and flicks his wand about to make it look a little less like two overworked single blokes live here. Lee's neon yellow socks cheerfully fly off the coffee table and into the room that used to be Fred's.

He brings her the biscuits and tea and reflects that it's a little weird that, despite the fact that he sees evidence of the fact that they had sex whenever he sees her, he's not that conscious of her as a girl most of the time. Probably too bloody tired and distracted to think of anybody that way, really. When you're spending a great deal of your time trying to run something that once required two very energetic people to give it their all and all you've got is your own exhausted self, often bleakly wondering whether the effort is even worth it, thoughts of sex don't, amazingly, come up often. Sure, he's had a couple vague dreams about her, but what little he remembers of their one night together didn't make that big an impact on him.

Sexually, that is. It definitely made a _hell_ of an impact on his self-esteem. The fear that the shop might fail is nothing; Fred would've understood. Fred might have let it fail himself, if he'd been the one to survive; he was better at organization, but freely admitted that he wasn't quite as creative as George was. But Fred had asked one thing, just one thing, of George, Just In Case: take care of Angelina. And George had fucked up. Literally.

So, naughty thoughts about Angelina? Not high on his agenda right now.

And at that precise moment she pauses in the middle of a story about some Muggle music band, her face animated, sitting closer to him than he's used to - on the same plaid and polka dotted couch they were on that night - with no shop counter or customers or Verity or Ron between them, and he's suddenly conscious of her. He's very aware of her slightly cinnamony scent, and it's disturbing. He doesn't want to be aware of it, doesn't want the almost immediate visceral reaction to her and the sensations and memories that crowd through him. Groans and whispers in the dark, the relief of feeling something that wasn't sorrow, the mindless drunken bliss of losing himself in her.

The shame that flooded him the next day, the disgust and regret and anger. At himself, at her... even at Fred, for pushing them together by his death.

He bites his lip and looks away, telling himself to get a grip. Glances at her and sees her looking right back at him, and his heart skips a beat.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice low, and God, no, there is no way he can tell her, but for all that he and Fred were accomplished liars, he can't think of a thing to say right now.

He's remained silent too long; she knows what he was feeling, and if she didn't before, the flush heating his cheeks is surely telling her now. He knows exactly what he looks like when he blushes; he saw Fred blush a few times and there was no absolutely no disguising it, not with their colouring. _Fuck_.

She puts a hand on his, and he has a brief moment of panic, followed by relief that she's not stalking away in revulsion, before panic sets in again because she's now also moved closer to him. And she's got a complex, hopeful look in her eyes, and against his will he's feeling all the things he told himself he couldn't and didn't feel, not towards her, not without a lot of alcohol or a dose of temporary insanity.

She caresses his hand and his body goes into overdrive, hardening within seconds, nerves singing with anticipation and fear. He feels almost completely helpless as she comes closer to him and lifts one hand to his cheek. No, no no he doesn't want this, she doesn't want this, it's not right, they're both doing it for the wrong reasons, it was fucking hellish afterwards the last time, and he's only ever had sex once and would really _very_ much like to forget it so that if he ever does it again he can just pretend he lost his virginity in a way that wasn't pathetic and shameful but he really won't be able to, will he, if he does it with Angelina, again...

But this feels so good, as she tilts her head slightly and touches her lips to his. She feels warm, she's touching him, and what little he remembers of their one night together had a few completely brilliant parts. And it's so exhausting, feeling almost nothing but sorrow and determination to plod onwards, all the time. Feeling something else is good. She kisses him again and he kisses her back, feeling a disorienting mixture of eagerness and dread, relief and grief.

After a moment he pulls away slightly. She lets him go and looks down. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "We're friends. I don't want to ruin that again."

He rests his forehead against hers. "I don't either."

"I do want you, though," she says simply.

He shakes his head. "No, you don't. You want Fred."

She doesn't insult him by denying it. "You're close enough," she says after a few moments, and somehow the quiet tone of her voice makes it so that words that should repel him just make him sad.

He shakes his head again. "I'm not." He sighs. "Look, last time..."

"Last time we were both drunk. This time we're not."

"I don't much want a repeat of the next morning, Ange."

She doesn't answer, just shakes her head and strokes his hair and he closes his eyes, feeling himself relax into her caress despite his best intentions. And when she brings their lips together again, he goes along with it.

Merlin, he almost feels _young_ again. Like he really is only twenty, with no responsibilities other than those he chooses, instead of worn down and half-dead and well on the way to reluctant fatherhood. Unclehood. Whatever.

Besides, the way his life is going these days, it's going to be a long, long time before he ever gets laid again. The ear has nothing to do with it; if anything, it makes him 'dashing' or something, to birds who care about that sort of thing. But who's going to want a moody, overworked, grim bastard who can't remember what it's like to crack a smile outside of work hours and who hasn't thought of pulling a bird more than once in months?

And it's more than he can do to resist her, as she gently presses up against him and his body responds to hers.

She's probably pretending he's Fred again. Last time, he did too. He _can't_ go there again. But maybe he can pretend he's just some bloke about to get lucky, and that his brother's ghost isn't floating between the two of them right now. And there's no child inside her, no guilt, no bitter certainty that they're both using each other to try to deal with the loss of the one person who would most want them to treat each other better than this...

_Fred, I'm sorry,_ he feels like saying. _You didn't have much control around her either, though, remember?_

_I'm sorry._

She parts her lips and so does he and the heat of her tongue shocks him, and he briefly wonders if he's going to start crying, but then that's gone and he's just _feeling_. Her braids are slipping through his fingers, and he remembers that from the last time they did this. Her hair is heavy and soft and her lips are warm, and her hands are cool and gentle on his cheek, his back, his arms.

Things are a little different now, though. He can understand what's going on, for one thing, what with being fully sober. And although he was a virgin before her, he's not exactly inexperienced; he does know what to do, up to a point. He kisses her neck, smiling at the moan that escapes her, gently caresses her breast and draws his thumb across the nipple, making her gasp, and doesn't wonder if Fred did the same things with her.

She's kissing the side of his neck and he shivers under her touch and then her hands have slipped under his shirt. He's sober, and so is she, and he can feel her trembling as she slips a finger behind the top button of his trousers and waits for him to nod before undoing it and slipping a hand inside. She nods quickly at his own unspoken request for permission to unbutton her blouse. He draws it off, and there's another rather noticeable difference between then and now. Her eyes are shy as the swell of her belly is revealed.

It's a little hard to not remember the baby when it's poking out at him. Besides, he can't - last time he ended up on top of her, he remembers that much; disjointed images, entering her and taking her lips in a kiss, her neck arching back under him, hands gripping his shoulders - but this time he'll hurt her if he does that. She's either five or six months along, depending on whether the baby's his or Fred's.

She sits up, then pushes him back so that he's half-sitting against the back of the couch. The soft swell of her belly lies between them as she carefully straddles him, and he gasps as she presses up against his groin, the friction sending sparks through him as she draws his shirt off, and a snippet of conversation in a darkened room flits through his memory.

"What, you did it right there, on the bloody peacock rug in Auntie's parlour?" he'd laughed when Fred had told him.

"No, mate," Fred had laughed too, "we were on the couch and she sort of sat on my lap and... Merlin, it was bloody brilliant."

"The flamingo next to the couch would've put me off, to be honest," George had said, sniggering.

And then he's not thinking or remembering any more, at all. They're both hastily removing her trousers and drawing his down and then he's moving with her as she straddles him again and he slips inside her, groaning, throwing his head back as she moves over him and makes him feel a dozen sensations that drive everything out of his mind but the magic of the moment. And there's nothing like this in the world, wanking is no substitute, and how he's seriously considered never doing this again with anybody is incomprehensible. One hand cups a firm breast and the other cradles the back of her head, and he kisses her deeply, moaning as she tightens her muscles around him and threads her fingers through his hair, her lips caressing his.

Angelina bites her lip and then cries out, and he cries out with her, thrusting up into her and his climax rushes through him and leaves him shaking.

He leans back against the back of the couch, chest heaving, Angelina's weight and warmth surrounding him, her scent still filling his senses, her breast heavy in his hand, the roundness of her taut belly between them.

He catches his breath, heartbeat finally slowing down. She sighs, loosening her grip on him, and he glances up at her. Her eyes are downcast, and she's biting her lip.

Merlin no, please not again, he wants to say, but she doesn't look upset, exactly. She glances up at him, then away. Shifts slightly. He tries to suppress a wince - he's always a bit sensitive after coming.

"Oh. Erm, am I too heavy?" she asks nervously.

"What? Oh. No, no not at all," he says quickly.

"I'll... erm." She shifts slightly. "I'll just, erm." She starts to move and he holds still, helping her a bit as she shifts up, sliding off of him.

She sits up, gingerly, takes her wand and murmurs something. His body is cool where she was just resting against him. He bites his lip and looks away from her, their nudity seeming somehow awkward.

She clears her throat. "I should go." He looks at her and she gives him a hesitant smile. "I... I'm supposed to be home not too late, Mum works early tomorrow..." She reaches for their clothing, hands him his shirt, and they start getting dressed again.

"I'll... do you mind, then, if I come by the day after tomorrow?" she asks.

"No. I don't mind."

"All right then," she says, and they finish dressing and head for the door. She hesitates, then quickly gives him a kiss on the cheek before heading down the stairs. He leans against the door of the flat, listening to her footsteps and the sound of the door to the shop being opened. Hears a pause, and two voices at the bottom of the stairs.

Lee.

Oh shit. Lee's home. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow at the earliest. George suddenly feels a little ill. He closes the door of the flat and heads for the kitchen, pouring himself a Firewhiskey with slightly trembling hands.

The front door opens and Lee steps in.

"You're home early," says George, his voice surprisingly steady.

"Yeah, the game took all of twenty seconds," says Lee. "And both Seekers took Bludgers to the head after the game was over, which was weird. Plenty of game analysis, but no interviews."

"Too bad."

"Just met Angelina coming down the stairs."

"Yeah."

Lee comes into the kitchen. "She all right?"

"Yeah."

Lee gives him a measured look, and George feels himself blushing, for the second time in one day.

"You all right?"

George nods, knocks back the Firewhiskey, and heads off. "Bed early. Have to catch sunrise tomorrow for the Dawn Ding-dongs." He goes past Lee.

"George."

Lee's voice is very quiet, but George doesn't stop. "Good night, Lee." He hears Lee blow out his breath in frustration.

He lies down and stares at the ceiling, his heart still beating rapidly and Angelina's scent still lingering about him.

"The flamingo next to the couch would've put me off, to be honest," he'd said, sniggering.

Fred's grin had been so bright it almost hurt to remember it. "Didn't notice the flamingo at all, mate. She just bit her lip and kept quiet, and I was dying to go faster but she was running the show, and I couldn't even say anything, because, you know, what with Auntie Muriel's bedroom being right next-"

"Oh, ugh, don't think I'd ever get it up again if I'd had to think of Auntie Muriel during sex."

"Not a problem. Seriously. _Not_ a problem at all."

Fred had been almost humming with energy for days after Angelina's visit, to George's amusement, and George was amazed that the rest of their family hadn't noticed. Maybe they thought he was just happy to see a friend, any friend, after being cooped up under Auntie Muriel's roof for so long. Or maybe they'd noticed but didn't bother to ask, because he and Fred were highly skilled at not letting anyone know their private business.

Not that it mattered. He'd died a week later.

Two nights. That's all Fred ever got with Angelina. The first night left him uncharacteristically subdued and pensive, because although they'd slept together, they hadn't agreed to anything more permanent or exclusive. The second - more like an evening than a night, actually - at Aunt Muriel's, had left him bright-eyed and almost brimming over with joy and hope that he had valiantly tried to wrestle down. Fred being cautious: a sight George had never thought he'd see.

He had been fairly quiet late that night, after Angelina had left. In their room at Auntie Muriel's, Fred had gone to bed without a word - without even the in-depth account of Angelina's visit that George had expected.

Not that he'd stayed quiet. George had woken up a few hours later to indistinct moans from Fred's side of the room, and immediately thrown a pillow in his direction.

"Oi! Romeo!" Fred had opened his eyes, dazed and obviously still in the grip of whatever Angelina-filled dream he'd been having. "Some of us celibate types are trying to sleep off Auntie's bloody pumpkin stew. Go pull off in the loo." Fred had groaned, eyes flicking towards the door, obviously not eager to leave the bed at this delicate juncture. George snorted. "Fine, cast a bloody silencing spell, then, you tosser." He'd turned over and put a pillow over his head, and it hadn't been terribly long till a pillow hit him back.

"All better now?"

"Much," Fred said brightly.

"So. Spill."

"Just did."

"Ew. I mean, what happened? With Angelina?"

"Told you."

"Details."

And Fred had given them. Vividly and enthusiastically. And concluded with, "And _you_ need to get your leg over."

"Thanks, I gathered that," George said, laughing. "Bit difficult right now. Dunno if you've noticed, but we're in hiding."

Fred waved that away. "Play up the heroic missing ear."

"The only birds I'm in contact with are Owl Order customers, remember? Can't work the ear into an invoice."

"'Course you can. 'If you've enjoyed this fantabulous Wheeze, why not hook up with its creator? Lugless, wanted by the Ministry, and not nearly as handsome as his twin, but-'" Another pillow went flying. Fred was undeterred. "Or you could always try and pull one of Auntie's friends. Most of them can't hear, so you can work the ear angle with them too-"

"Sod off," he'd chuckled. "Wanker."

Fred grinned happily. "Only part-time wanker, mate, as I just got laid, whereas it's a full-time occupation for you. Serious here: you need a girl."

Well, he'd got a girl, George reflects now bitterly. Only five weeks later. The same one as Fred.

He shivers and turns over in bed, closing his eyes and wishing for sleep.

**ooo000ooo**

The morning after... is not that bad, comparatively speaking. Angelina doesn't disappear from his life again. He kind of wishes he could disappear from his own life, or at least from his conscience, but that's another story.

And then it happens again. Pretty much a replay of the second time. Awkward, exciting, and hell to live with the next day. He tries to tell himself it didn't happen, and even if it did, it doesn't matter.

The fourth time he really can't tell himself that any more. Although denial has become his coping mechanism of choice for many aspects of his life, the fourth time he sleeps with Angelina is different, in that he initiates it.

He's been feeling like warmed-over shit most of the day. The shop insists on switching without notice from a comforting sanctuary where he can actually find life worth living to a fucking technicoloured mausoleum. One that traps him, mocks him with its cheer, with his obligation to keep the smile on for the customers when what he wants most is to hide under his bedcovers until the hurt is gone or maybe just set the entire place on fire. He's walking around without a soul, battered by memories and unfinished sentences, and the shop just keeps whirring and blinking and strobing and shrieking cheerfully on. It's one of those days when every aisle and every corner and every product has a memory of himself and Fred, laughing together and innocently believing that if they just looked at it the right way, anything, no matter how dark, was worth living through. Even with a little brother gone missing, a little sister trapped in a school-turned-insane-asylum, and an entire world in danger from a vicious madman, there was some way to laugh. To reach past the darkness and make what light they could.

He doesn't believe that any more.

The final straw that day is a pair of small siblings, identical curly blond heads bent over a shelf, bursting into delighted laughter at one of the oldest Wheezes products, a chicken wand.

They're not identical, on second look. They could be anywhere between six and ten - he's not terribly good at distinguishing kids' ages - one is slightly taller than the other, and the taller one's eyes are dark, where the shorter one's are blue. But they're having a wonderful time in the shop and eagerly pointing out products to each other and finishing each others' sentences and he aches to share it with Fred.

The shop turns into a nightmare of colour and noise and laughter. He stays as long as he can, and when he realizes he's idly wondering whether the coming breakdown will consist of hexing a customer or bursting into tears, he tells Verity he's got some restocking to do in the lab and barricades himself inside. He works mechanically, brewing and charming and packaging for hours, skipping dinner. Verity and Ron, bless them, let him be. By the time the clock finally strikes nine he's realized that if he doesn't do _something_, he's liable to take out his wand and see if you can cast Avada Kedavra on your own sorry arse, just for something to do.

No, not really. But whatever he does won't be pretty. The one person he needs the most, the one person who knew how to settle him down with a casual quip or a prank whenever he got into this kind of headspace, is the reason he's in this headspace and is sadly unavailable for quips or pranks or anything useful at all.

There's somebody else who is available, though. He goes to Angelina's house.

It's ridiculously simple to get her to let him fuck her. He's the closest she can get to Fred, after all. And she's vulnerable, and bored, and who knows what happened in her day, and she's pregnant and apparently pregnancy can do funny things to a girl's libido and judgment.

For an hour or so, he's just living in the present and the present feels pretty damn good. It's not full of jokes that can't be shared and tears hovering just out of reach. It's filled with panting and gasping and heat and pleasure, with movement and sound that have nothing to do with memories of Fred - not for him, anyway - and it's a blessed, blessed relief.

There's no describing how he feels after that hour is over.

**ooo000ooo**

Lee plods up the stairs and opens the door, finding George at the table doing the accounts for the shop. He waves tiredly and trudges to his room and tosses his pack on the bed.

He debates throwing himself onto the bed too, and just going to sleep. He's exhausted. Coverage of the Death Eater trials has been bloody grueling, and although he's grateful for the chance to prove himself as a radio personality - Potterwatch looks good on his resume, but he can't live off that forever - he's bloody well knackered.

He's also bloody hungry, though. He sighs and makes his way to the kitchen, hoping George has managed to go shopping in the three days Lee's been gone.

Bless him, he has. Lee grabs a chicken pasty and some Butterbeer, pauses and adds an apple, and settles down at the table. George moves his scroll to make room for him, and his quill continues busily scratching the parchment.

"Tired?" George asks, and Lee makes a muffled sound through the pasty. "Went well?"

Lee shrugs. "Ang'roo ort," he mumbles, and swallows. "Sorry. Kangaroo court. They're just going through the motions."

George nods, not looking up from his parchment.

"Should probably say something on the wireless about rights being violated or something," Lee says, and takes another bite. "Would care, 'cept I don't."

George nods.

"Only interesting thing I found out, I can't report on. There's a group of morons asking to bring Dementors back to Azkaban."

George nods.

"Which is bloody disturbing," says Lee. "It's not just people like Umbridge, but even relatively sane folks like the Abbotts. Kingsley asked me not to report it; he says he doesn't know what's going to happen if it gets out and they get even more popular support."

George nods absently again, and Lee frowns. "And they're not even asking for them to guard the prisoners," he adds. "It's just to provide air conditioning. Azkaban gets pretty hot in summer, apparently."

George nods again, clearly not listening. Lee sighs, and glances over the parchment George is working on. A column of figures marches solidly down about a foot, but there are scratched out bits everywhere. He leans back and gazes at George's face, taking in the small line between his brows, the air of distraction.

He looks thin, and he apparently hasn't shaved since Lee left, judging from the faint reddish shadow along his cheek. His hair is much too long, brushing his shoulders. There are lines on his face that weren't there six months ago, and an air of exhaustion and quiet hopelessness.

Lee wonders how much of that hopelessness has to do with the shop accounts. Fred was always the better of the two when it came to paperwork, and George struggles with it. Of course, he can always get Percy to help. Lee has come to realise that if George had been the one to snuff it, Fred would've been in even more dire straits, as George was the more creative of the pair. No sense keeping a shop's accounts shipshape if your products are no longer as inspired.

He glances down at George's potion-stained fingers, the nails bitten to the quick again, and sighs. The accounts are not the problem, he's sure. Lee really doesn't have the energy to try to help George today... but unfortunately, there isn't anyone else.

"How's it going?" he asks.

George nods. "Good, fine."

Lee blows out his breath. "Right. Tell me another one," he says, and George finally looks up.

"What?"

Lee gets up and pours them both a Firewhiskey. He comes back and sets the glass before George, pulling the parchment away.

"Oi," says George.

"Percy can do it tomorrow. You're messing it up."

George glances over the parchment and shrugs, picks up the glass and drains half of it.

"Going that well, is it?"

George shrugs and quietly studies the light playing through the glass of Firewhiskey. Funny how antithetical 'quiet' was to 'George' once upon a time, and how much the word defines him now. Lee doesn't have the patience to try to draw him out gently, not tonight. "You look like yesterday's shit," he says bluntly.

"Top of the evening to you too," George says dryly.

"How was your day?"

George sighs, realizing Lee's not going to be put off. "Not a good day in former twinland," he says wryly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing major, just a lot of annoying crap. Let's see... the new clerk spilled some Drama Llama powder on herself, and spent the entire day flouncing about and having temper fits and crying. Ron's tired out from night training; picked up some Bi-curios without shielding and kept giggling and getting flustered with any fit men that came into the shop for the rest of the afternoon. And we ran out of wrapping paper."

"You need to take a day off."

"Can't. Ron's Auror training's getting intense. He can't keep putting in as many hours at the shop. Besides, Christmas rush coming."

Right. Christmas. Crap.

"How's that going? Christmas, I mean."

George shrugs. "It's Christmas. Busy time." Lee blows his breath out in annoyance. George rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know, buying presents alone, supposedly deeply traumatic, Mum's worried about that too. Keep trying to tell her it's not a big deal; I've already done it for how many birthdays?"

Five, thinks Lee. Ginny, Percy, Molly, Bill, and Charlie. Hard to miss the massive drinking bout that followed each one. "Haven't done it for everybody, all at once," Lee points out quietly.

"Not a big deal. I just have to... keep going." George sighs and pulls the parchment back towards himself, and Lee lets him, not knowing what else to do.

He's worried, though, as he finishes his pasty and watches George try to add up the figures. First Christmas without Fred, and it's going to hurt. Especially considering how much both of the twins loved Christmas - celebrating it, making fun of it, spending time with their family... he doesn't even want to imagine what Christmas will be like for any of the Weasleys this year.

And that's not all that's bothering George, Lee thinks as he finishes his pasty and starts on the apple. As if the shop and the family weren't enough, there's the baby, due two months from now. As well as this _thing_ with Angelina, eating away at him.

George frowns and crosses out yet another error.

It was bad enough that he slept with her the first time. Lee remembers coming back from a late night at the radio, seeing a bit of a mess in the living room, and stumbling to his bed without much curiosity. George is normally a fairly neat person, surprisingly - comes from dealing with dangerous substances, you either get neat or die - but he'd been drinking a lot at the time. Lee remembers vaguely thinking he should slow down before it became too much of a habit, but it was only a month after the war, they were all needing something to deal with what had happened, and he hadn't even bothered to go into George's room to make him take a precautionary hangover potion.

The morning after had been horrifying. Waking up to the sound of a girl crying, realizing it was Angelina, and emerging from his room just in time to see her stumbling exit from the flat. George, still hung over, explaining what had happened the night before, his face ashen, his voice hollow with self-loathing.

Lee had never seen a Weasley twin beaten down by remorse before. They tended to act first and apologize later, with sheepish grins that made it impossible not to forgive whatever they'd done, even such major transgressions as flying out of school in a blaze of glory and leaving their best mate behind. Lee had no idea how to comfort George, and had settled for simply accompanying him in getting blindingly drunk again.

Lee cares about Angelina, he really does. And once he would've given his right nut to sleep with her. But that was before she went and used the surviving one of his two best friends and then buggered off, leaving Lee to pick up the pieces - and before she came back and decided to pick up where she left off. Not that Lee is under the illusion that this sick thing they have going is all her doing, but he doesn't get to see the aftereffects on her. He sees them on George. Every single time he's with her.

This thing with Angelina is killing George. Bad enough that she's pregnant, bad enough that he feels guilty about that, whether the baby's his or not; sleeping with her is like poison to him. Every time it eats away at him more and more.

George is still trying to make the bloody numbers add up and Lee's lost interest in his apple as they sit in silence. Lee stares at the scratched and stained magenta tabletop and George writes, his quill moving slower and slower. Lee's noticed that George is slowing down these days. Like sometimes it takes all he's got just to move at all.

Lee starts as George suddenly shoves aside the parchment. George gets up, taking his glass to the kitchen counter.

"Sod this," he says wearily, his back to Lee. "Fred could make the numbers dance. I can barely count to ten these days." He rubs his face wearily. "I am so fucking tired," he says, his voice almost inaudible.

Lee stands and goes to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. His own sense of missing Fred is a constant ache. Every time George says something that should be followed by Fred's hoot of laughter, every dirty joke George makes that should be expanded upon to the point of utter tastelessness, every time somebody does something stupid that Fred would've skewered immediately. If that's how Lee feels, he can't even imagine what's going on inside George, but whatever it is, is breaking him.

George's head is bowed and he's taking deep calming breaths, and Lee's not sure what to do. He's seen George upset in the last several months, but there's always been copious amounts of alcohol to help them both through it.

"I can't. Fuck this shite," George says, and his voice roughens on the last word. He clears his throat. "I miss him. I can't do this on my own. God, I miss him..." He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter, putting his face in his hands.

"George..." bloody hell, he can't think of anything to say.

"And I'm fucking up," George says, his voice muffled. "So badly."

"The shop's doing-"

"I'm not talking about the bloody shop, I don't give a flying fuck about the shop," George says savagely, struggling for control. "I... it's not the shop, it's, it's everything else, the kid, the - I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with, with - fuck!" George breaks off and Lee winces. He's incoherent, with not enough alcohol to blame it on. He's one of the two sharpest wits Lee has ever met, one of two people who were never at a loss for words, never without a ready quip or rude comment, and seeing him struggle for words never stops being painful. George never had to work to make himself understood before; there was always another person who could always tell what he wanted to say, and jump in with the right words. Lee just can't step in and fill that void, no matter how much he wants to.

George takes a deep breath. "Fuck, the one thing Fred asked me to do, I can't."

"What's that?"

"He asked me to take care of her," George says miserably, still hiding his face in his hands. "How the hell can I?"

Lee thinks for a moment. "D'you think it might help if you stopped fucking her?" he asks, bracing himself for George's denial, as he's never confronted George about this before. He's not supposed to know.

No denial is forthcoming. George laughs bitterly, meeting Lee's eyes briefly before looking away. "Oh, d'you think? Yeah, it might help, not feeling like my brother's fucking ghost is going to show up any minute and disown me. Yeah, that might be nice."

"Why do you keep doing it, then?"

George laughs again, and the humourlessness of the sound grates on Lee. "You have to ask?" He shakes his head. "She... I can forget, with her."

"Just not for long."

"No." George puts his head down again, drawing in on himself. "Oh God, I can't, I can't keep doing this," he says, and then he can't speak any more as he fights to stay in control.

Lee puts an arm around him, ignores George's initial resistance and pulls him closer. "Come on, mate," he says gently. "Let it go."

George shakes his head, trembling. "Let it go," Lee says again, and a sob tears from George's throat, and his shoulders heave. His entire body shakes with the force of his sorrow, and Lee simply stands and holds on to him and gives him time to get through it.

All right, enough of this, Lee thinks, his own throat aching as George weeps bitterly. There's a time to be a friend and stand by and be ready to help when you're asked to, and there's a time to realize that you probably won't ever be asked to help, but the time to just stand by is over.

**ooo000ooo**

Angelina's a little surprised to see Lee at her mum's. They sit in her mum's kitchen, with its Muggle microwave and Muggle telly in the living room. She's never quite become used to Lee being in this world, although he's visited her fairly frequently ever since she and George slept together that first time. Not so frequently since she and George got back in contact again.

Contact. What a nice euphemism.

They chat about nothing for a few minutes, and then there's a lull. Angelina thinks Lee's working up to the reason for his visit.

"Can I ask you something?" Lee asks, and there's a tone she can't identify in his voice.

"What?"

"Do you ever go to Fred's grave?"

Angelina blinks, confused. "Erm. I've gone a few times."

"Ever pissed on it?"

Angelina's mouth drops open. "What?" She stares at him, identifying the tone. Anger. Not his regular pyrotechnics, full of wit and sarcasm, but quiet and deep anger.

"Because you might as well, you know," he says. "In fact, I'd rather you did."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're fucking George," says Lee flatly.

Angelina feels her cheeks heat up. Briefly she considers denying it. But sod that, she was a Gryffindor once. "What George and I do is none of your business," she says instead.

"Excuse me, he's my best mate," says Lee. "Used to be one of my two best mates, except the other one's kind of beyond my help right now."

"What do you-"

"You don't love him. You're just using him. And you're messing with his head."

"What-"

"Look, I'm so sorry you lost the love of your life, Angelina," he sneers, and then falters as she draws in her breath, hurt. "I... I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "You... look, I am sorry you lost Fred. I'm sorry you and George both made a mistake, that first time. And I'm sorry you got pregnant. I know this is hard for you. But." Lee gathers his thoughts and when he speaks again Angelina's shocked at the seriousness in his eyes. This is the boy who flirted shamelessly with her for years, back at school, the only one who could almost match Fred and George for outrageous obnoxiousness and a firm refusal to take life seriously.

How they've all changed.

"George is doing shitty," he says, his voice low. "Really shitty. He's having a hard enough time learning to be a person on his own, all right? You lost a boy you were in love with, and that's terrible. But George lost his brother and _himself_ - the person he was when he was part of a set. He's trying to figure out who he is without Fred, and run a business, and grieve without going insane, _and_ deal with the baby, and then you go and..."

Angelina stares at him. "I'm not the only one who-"

"I know, all right? I know he comes to you at least as often as you go to him."

"How do you-"

"I've got eyes," he says impatiently. "Angelina, he doesn't need this on top of everything else. He doesn't need the guilt he feels every time you two fuck."

"Why? Because Fred wouldn't have wanted him to? Maybe that's between him and Fred, have you thought of that?"

"No," says Lee. "Because he's feeding in to your need to hold on to someone who isn't here any more."

Angelina flinches.

"I'm sure it also doesn't help to know that you're willing to use him, just to pretend Fred's still with you."

Angelina pushes that thought away angrily. "_I'm_ the one who's dealing with this!" She makes a motion towards her distended middle. "I'm the one who's got to think about how my life will change - fuck him! He's still got the shop, he's still got his life, I'm the one who-"

"He's also trying to figure out what it means that you're having this kid. He doesn't carry it with him the way you do, but he thinks about it. All the time."

"But-"

"And it's all killing him - he doesn't sleep well, he's too thin, he doesn't take care of himself, he's on the verge of tears a lot of the time, he's slowing down - he's bloody well falling apart-" Lee stops himself, then takes a deep breath. "Please. Just let him be. All right? If you're that desperate, find someone else to - I mean, it's not like you can get pregnant again, right?" Angelina opens her mouth for a retort but Lee pushes on. "And if you won't do it for George, do it for Fred. Because if you're looking to keep Fred with you for a little longer... all you're doing is destroying part of what Fred was."

"That's not..." Angelina trails off. _That's not what I'm trying to do_, she wants to say, and _That's__ not what I want_, and _I need him_, and _Maybe he needs me too_... and she can't really bring herself to say any of it.

Because Lee, damn him, is absolutely right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much, My Secret Pleasure, RavenclawBest, flyingdaggers, HPFanFictionFan, and poohlicous for your reviews! And thank you to breve and tree00faery for beta as well :)

**Chapter 4**

"So how is Angelina these days, dear?" Mum asks, loading George's plate with Christmas goose.

"Fine," says George.

"How's the baby?"

"All right."

"What's she doing for Christmas?"

"Don't know."

Mum looks at him curiously. "Why not?"

George chews and swallows before answering, hoping that in the delay somebody will distract Mum from the topic. He's somehow avoided this until now, and he'd really rather have a pleasant, Angelina-free Christmas meal with his family.

No such luck, he's done chewing and Mum's still looking at him expectantly. "We're not in contact much," he says casually.

Mum frowns. "Why not?"

George shrugs. "Busy. You know. Christmas."

"George, that's no excuse. The poor girl is sitting at home waiting for a baby, and it's not even a wizarding home with heat and pregnancy potions-"

"She's in a Muggle house, Mum, not a cave."

"But you have to make time to be with her, she needs your support."

George blows out his breath. "Mum. Leave off."

"You have an obligation to-"

"Yeah, well, she doesn't want my help."

Mum frowns. "I thought things were better, I thought-"

"_Mum._" He puts his fork down, exasperated. "Look, we're not spending time together now because we were, but then we started sleeping together again, and then she broke it off. Again."

"_What?_"

All conversation at the table stops at Mum's outburst.

"What happened?" Ginny asks.

"I just told Mum that I was sleeping with Angelina for a while," says George bluntly. "And that I'm not any more."

Percy looks flummoxed. "But... you said you didn't... that it was just the once-"

"It was. And then it was twice, and then it was three times, and eventually I lost count."

The rest of the table is gaping at George, but Ron looks uncomfortably unsurprised, and for some reason that's rather irritating. Ickle Ronnie shouldn't look like he had already figured this out before now, without Hermione around to point it out to him. Lee's one thing - it had been a complete non-shock to realize that he'd clued in, because what the hell, Lee lives with George and he's been friends with George, Fred, and Angelina since they were kids. But Ronnie's supposed to be dumb as a post when it comes to the fine points of male-female relationships - that Charming Witches book he and Fred got Ron was given in the true spirit of brotherly pity - and it doesn't feel great that even he was able to figure out what was going on.

Mum seems to be trying to get her head around this new information. "Well... well, it's... I suppose it's... erm, romantic, sometimes tragedy can-"

George grimaces. "It wasn't romantic, Mum. It was sick." Mum blanches.

"How long were you... dating?" asks Percy.

"We weren't dating," George says impatiently. "What part of 'sleeping with' isn't clear here? We were both doing it for the wrong reasons, and I was glad she had the sense to break it off." Mum makes a soft sound of dismay and George gives her a grim smile. "Are we done now? Can we go back to eating and stop prying into my personal life?"

"I'm not prying," says Mum. "I'm trying to take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me," George retorts.

Mum's eyes narrow. "Apparently you do. If you let yourself be taken advantage of by a girl who-"

"Molly," Dad says quickly.

"A girl who what?" George says angrily.

"She's pregnant, with a baby who may have been fathered by two different men," says Mum, her voice tight. "And she starts up some kind of... of... it does make me wonder who else she-"

"Molly," Dad repeats quietly.

George's eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't sound as though she's been exactly discriminating, does it?" Mum asks. "Perhaps you should wonder who else could be the father of-"

"So Angelina's a slut now, is she?" said George, keeping his voice steady with great difficulty.

"She might have thought about what she was doing before she went from Fred, to you, within five weeks-"

"And maybe I might have thought about what I was doing before fucking my dead twin's ex, d'you think?"

"George!" says Arthur.

"Oh I see, she can call the mother of her grandchild a slut, but I can't use the word fucking?"

"George."

"And you _seriously_ wonder why Fred and I never told you anything?" George asks scornfully, and Mum flinches as if he'd slapped her.

Something unforgivable is going to be said very soon, and George really doesn't want to go there during Christmas dinner. He tosses his napkin onto the table and scrapes back his chair, stalking out of the dining room and making his way to his old room upstairs. He shuts the door and leans back against it, closes his eyes and counts to ten.

Still furious. Counts to twenty. No change. Counts to thirty.

Who the hell did she - how could she - what an interfering old-

He hits the back of his head against the door and closes his eyes again, welcoming the distraction of the slight pain, and feels a deep urge to take out his wand and make a few things explode in here.

He takes a deep breath. This was his and Fred's old room, and much as blowing things up might have been one of their favourite pastimes, he doesn't really want to damage anything here. Not their Weird Sisters curtains, not the posters on the wall, not the char marks all over the furniture or the spot on the floor where they worked on their Portable Swamp, still vaguely green and soggy years later. No matter how angry his mother has made him.

Because bloody hell, that was catty. Not that he's been feeling terribly charitable towards Angelina lately, but... Mum was completely out of line. Judging Angelina, the girl Fred loved with all his heart, the girl who might have been her daughter-in-law if only things had turned out differently...

Merlin, if Fred were here they'd probably both just leave. Fred would've let him know that he completely agreed with George, that Mum deserved to have them both just leave her Christmas dinner - whatever George needed to hear, because much as they both loved their friends and family, it was them against everybody else and it was bloody rare that they would take the third party's side, no matter what the other twin had done.

... and maybe that wasn't always such a good thing.

George sighs, running a hand through his hair. He has started to realize that there were a few times in the past when he or Fred definitely should've told the other he'd gone too far, instead of agreeing with him on principle. Times like... tonight's dinner, actually.

He glances around their room, and his eyes fall on a picture, still tacked on the wall, taken right after the Gryffindor Quidditch team won the Cup in his and Fred's fifth year. He gazes at the team for a few moments - Oliver, Harry, Alicia, Katie, Angelina, himself, and Fred. He smiles slightly at their gleeful looks, the way they all jump up and down and hug each other, and the huge grin on McGonagall's face.

_God_, what he wouldn't give to be back in that moment, to feel that young and alive again.

Instead, he's here. And he may still be young, but without Fred around, he's having to learn what it means to be a grownup.

He takes a deep breath, opens the door and goes downstairs. It doesn't feel great that his family stares at him in shock, not having expected him to come down at all.

"I'm sorry," he says to the room at large, ruthlessly suppressing his discomfort. "That was out of line."

Mum has tears in her eyes and he put them there, damn it. This is one of those times when Fred would've made a sarcastic quip and they would've just left her miserable.

"Mum, I'm really sorry," he says instead.

They're all open-mouthed, and Mum stands and hurries to him. "Of course, dear," she says, and hugs him close. She forgives anything, in anybody. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said... I just don't want you to get hurt. By Angelina or by anybody."

He nods. "I know." He swallows hard, hugging her tightly. "Just don't... don't judge her. None of this has been easy on her either."

Mum nods and motions him to his seat, and the conversations resume awkwardly. George doesn't bother to join in, preferring to just watch the interactions among the family. It's a full table, with Mum, Dad, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry. Ginny and Hermione are home from school, Charlie's got three new scars and a temporary patch over one eye, Percy's just been promoted, and Fleur is five months along, expecting her first in mid-May. There's a lot to tell each other, a lot of catching up to do - though not as much as in previous years, as they've all been keeping in touch a lot more since the war.

It's palpable, the difference among them. They're all smiling and mostly enjoying themselves, but the atmosphere is definitely subdued. Fred's absence is felt as keenly as if Mum had set an extra place setting at the table and left a chair empty.

They finally finish and drift into the living room. George finds himself listening to the Wireless, his mind drifting off to the music, and finds himself wondering if things had turned out differently, if Angelina would've been with them this year.

He's glad she's not.

He misses her friendship; chatting with her, showing her new ideas for the shop. He misses feeling somehow less empty, less alone, when he's with her. And yes, he misses the rest of what came with her too; misses the taste of her mouth, the way she moaned, the way she made him feel, the way her fingers drew shivers from him and her muscles tightened around him as she climaxed. He even misses the fact that she sometimes allowed herself to blur the line between him and Fred. He doesn't miss the guilt, though, or the self-disgust. The feeling that if Fred could possibly manage it, he'd come back from beyond the grave to kick George's arse to hell and back. The sense of having failed him, of denigrating his memory. And as much as he feels he should be angry at Lee for having interfered, he can't help but be grateful instead. He and Angelina exchange occasional dry, factual owls - latest midwitch checkup went well, shop will be closed Christmas Day - but that's about it.

"George," Bill says, coming to sit next to him. "I'd, erm, like to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

Bill seems nervous. "Fleur and I have been talking about names for the baby."

"Already?"

"Well, Fleur more than me," says Bill. "She had an idea... but I wanted to talk to you first."

George frowns at him. What possible input could he give to the naming of Bill's child?

"It's not that we want to name her Fred or anything," says Bill hastily, mistaking his puzzlement for disapproval because that idea hadn't occurred to George yet. "For one thing, it's a girl."

"You know that already?"

"Well, normally the spells that figure it out wouldn't work until about the sixth month, but with Fleur's Veela blood and all... apparently, they 'know deese tings.'"

George nods.

"Anyway. We've been told the due date won't be mid-May after all. It's... it's May 2."

George starts. The Battle of Hogwarts. The day Fred died.

Bill swallows. "Fleur says Veela are also well-known for their tendency to carry exactly to term... seems to think it's ridiculous that other witches only have a rough estimate of when they'll give birth. So that's most probably when she'll be born. Might not be, Fleur's only a quarter Veela, so maybe..."

George nods sympathetically. What a crap birthday.

"And well... it's a hell of a day to be born. So Fleur wants a name that will point out what's good about that day. Because everybody will be thinking about what's bad about it. In this family at least."

"What does she want to call her?"

Bill hesitates. "Victoire."

"Victory," George says, and finds himself smiling slightly. "That's a heavy name to give a kid."

Bill looks at him curiously. "You don't mind?"

"Why would I?" says George. "It's a good name."

"I just... I don't want anyone to feel that we're dismissing anyone who was lost that day. If she does end up being born then. It was a victory with a heavy price."

"It was, yeah," George agrees. "But it was a victory. It's not dismissing anyone, reminding people of that."

Bill nods and smiles, relieved. "Good. Yeah, that's what Mum and Dad said too." He hesitates briefly. "Does your-erm, have you and Angelina talked about names?"

"Angelina has, yeah," he says shortly. He's not pleased about her choice and she knows it, but he really does not want to discuss it with anyone in his family.

Bill seems to sense his reluctance to pursue the topic. "Feels weird that you'll be the first dad among all of us," muses Bill.

George shrugs. "Or uncle," he points out.

Bill nods uncomfortably, but doesn't comment on that either. "Only... I always assumed I'd be the first. Showing you little ones how it's done. As usual."

George smiles wryly. "Yeah, well, you're still doing that. I'm just showing how it _shouldn't_ be done."

Bill frowns. "George-"

"Forget it," says George quickly. "Yeah, tell Fleur I said it's a brilliant name. 'Scuse me," he stands up, "I'm off for more sherry cobbler."

**ooo000ooo**

The call comes in late afternoon. Angelina was supposed to have lunch with George and Lee at the Leaky, first time they've seen her in weeks, and she doesn't show up. George calls her on the telephone, resisting the urge to shout into her mother's recording machine - without seeing another person, it's hard to tell anybody's listening.

Hours later, his Floo fires up and there's some witch he doesn't know telling him Angelina Johnson has been taken to St. Mungo's.

It feels like his stomach drops down to his feet. "What? When?"

"Ten hours ago."

"Is she-"

"She's all right," says the witch. "It's just a difficult labour-"

"She's all right," Angelina's mum repeats when he runs into the hospital, minutes later, after leaving a note for Lee to find when he gets home. "Healthy, anyway. The baby's apparently all right too, though it's breech. Don't know how they know that; there's no proper ultrasounds or baby monitors. Or hospital hygiene." She sniffs disapprovingly. "It's like one of these new-age birthing clinics, no surgical masks or anything. In my day we were hygienic."

George has no idea what she's talking about.

"Anyway, the midwife - oh excuse me, mid_witch_-" the word is said with another disdainful sniff, "says she'll be all right, it'll just take time." She pauses. "Angelina told me to tell you that you can stay, if you want to." The warmth and welcome in her voice could freeze Butterbeer. "Not that she wants you anywhere near the birthing room, mind you." She turns and goes back down the hall.

Angelina's in pain, and it's all he can think of as he paces up and down in the waiting room for over an hour, occasionally trying to read an insipid Witch Weekly or incomprehensible Quibbler. He can't focus long enough to make sense of any of the articles, and eventually gives it up as a bad job.

He's startled when Angelina's mother comes back into the room. "Oh. You're still here," she says gracelessly. "Well, she wants you to come in." He blinks, astonished, then quickly follows her down the hall.

Angelina's sitting up in some sort of reclining chair, breathing hard, looking exhausted, and as her eyes meet his he's taken aback by the pain in them. She holds out her hand and he takes it, moving to her side and suppressing a wince as she squeezes his fingers painfully. She's silent, pushing for a few moments, and then she relaxes. Apparently the contraction is done.

"How are you doing?" he asks. Angelina's eyes are closed, and she shakes her head.

"She's doing fine," says an unreassuringly young-looking midwitch. "The baby's doing well too; he's just taking his time."

"He?"

"A fine, healthy baby boy."

A boy. George nods numbly, and the midwitch gives Angelina a sympathetic look. "All right, then, dearie? Another one coming, I want you to push, push hard now, there's a good girl..."

The world narrows down to the midwitch's calm, cheerful words, Angelina's hand crushing his, and her quiet groans as she pushes. Pastel walls and birthing chair, Angelina's dark skin a grayish shade and her eyes dulled by pain, faint scents of soothing herbal potions and sweat. For hours, it seems, he's by her side, and he doesn't know that he's helping at all, as he has no idea what to do or say, but she doesn't seem to want anything more from him than his presence. At the midwitch's suggestion, he puts a damp towel on her forehead and helps her count through the contractions, wishing he could take the pain from her. Wishing there was some form of safe magic that could hurry up the baby, get this agony over with. Wishing with all his heart that it was Fred here with her, instead of him.

And then with a rush of blood and disorienting suddenness, it's over. He's looking at Angelina's face and almost misses the baby as he makes his entrance into the world.

Then there are baby monitoring spells, healing spells for Angelina, all sorts of incantations and bursts of light, and he just holds her hand.

"He's all right?" she murmurs, her eyes closed. George looks over at the baby. He's lighter-skinned and has even less hair than George had expected, but it's hard to tell anything else, what with the blood and goo all over him. Good set of lungs, though.

"Looks all right. Bit squashy-looking."

Angelina smiles faintly. A Healer murmurs something about doing a few more tests, shoos George and Mrs. Johnson away, and closes a set of curtains around Angelina's bed. It feels like he's been here forever and has lost all awareness of the world outside the birthing room, so it's a bit of a shock when a mediwitch lets him know that his parents are in the hospital. He has a moment of panic - who's been injured this time? - before she goes on to say that they'd like to come in and see the baby.

What?

He goes to the door and looks into the hallway and there are his parents. Lee must have contacted them. And there's Bill and Percy and Ron not Ginny, right, as Ginny's back at school. He opens the door and his family turns around, all staring at him. He tilts his head towards the room, letting them know they can come in if they want, and wonders if he's ever felt this tired before. He rubs his jaw and winces at the roughness of stubble, and briefly wonders if his eyes are as bloodshot as they feel.

Angelina's mother tries to smile, unsuccessfully, as the Weasleys come trooping in. Mum makes the introductions, her voice uncharacteristically shy, her eyes darting over to the curtained-off section of the room. The Healer pokes her head out and motions George over and all conversation stops.

"You all right?" George says to Angelina, and she nods, gazing at the baby in her arms. He seems to have been cleaned up a bit, but still looks rather squashy.

"Just wanted to say thanks," Angelina says quietly.

George nods. "Erm, my family's here. You don't have to see them if-"

"No, that's all right," she says. "You can open the curtain."

He draws the curtain open and Mum makes a small sound like a gasp. Everyone's eyes are glued to the small bundle in Angelina's arms. Angelina looks up at him and gives him a tired smile and sits up slightly, wincing a bit. George is by her side in an instant, helping her.

"Here," she says, and he's surprised to see that she's holding the baby up to him. George carefully takes him from her. He weighs almost nothing, and he's tinier than George could've possibly imagined. Floppier, too, but George knows enough to make sure and support his head.

He's not prepared for the baby to open dark eyes and gaze up at him intently. Doesn't know what he's supposed to feel, and he finds himself carefully touching a tiny hand with his forefinger, a small shock going through him as the baby immediately grasps it firmly, gaze still fixed on his own.

"Maybe your Mum would like to hold him," Angelina suggests quietly, and George is a bit startled. He looks at his mum.

"What's his name?" Mum asks, and George glances at Angelina.

"You're sure?" he asks

Her mouth tightens slightly. "I'm sure," she says, and her voice has a slight edge.

"What's his name?" asks Mum again. George carefully puts the baby in her arms.

"His name is Fred," says Angelina. "Fred Alexander Johnson."

Mum's eyes fill with tears. She looks down at the tiny brown infant, his small fists waving vaguely and his mouth open in a minuscule yawn. "Hello, Freddie," she whispers.

**ooo000ooo**

George's first two months as a father pass uneventfully. In fact, he hardly notices he's a father - uncle, whatever - because he hardly ever sees his son. Once a week, he Floo-calls Angelina and they have a terrifically awkward conversation. She sends pictures by owl. He holds the baby three times, pretty much at his mother's insistence when she annoys him into actually going to Angelina's place. It feels uncomfortable and unnatural, and it's nothing he's all that keen to repeat too often. He copes by throwing himself into the shop with single-minded intensity, and he lives, eats, and breathes Wheezes. The shop has never had so many new products, or made so much money.

He knew Angelina didn't want him involved. It's different, knowing that in theory, and living the reality.

**ooo000ooo**

Good times at the shop can translate into good times for the family as well. The entire family's laughing as the last child - Mum - is finally turned back to herself.

"That was priceless," Charlie's red-faced with laughter, and the rest of them can't contain themselves either - at tiny Hermione's tantrum over the sweets, at mini-Dad earnestly insisting that he could turn a plug into anything he wanted it to be, at little Fleur putting a doily on her head to look pretty - and it's definitely one of the most fun gatherings they've had in a long time. It's funny, birthdays have been rather strained events this year, but this one, Ron's, is a big success. And it's mostly due to Ron and George having spiked the punch with Wheezes' Wee Ones juice. It almost feels like the old days, Ron thinks. Like Fred's still here, in a way, smiling down at them all.

Though it's a bit odd to think of Fred with angel wings, beaming down at them beatifically from some serene beyond. Not unless the wings can be made magenta with lime-green polka dots and the beam become the sort of smirk that usually meant trouble for the rest of them.

Then Charlie asks George, "What about you? Hardly fair for you to be the only one not de-aged! Even Ron took some, and he knew what was in the punch!"

George's grin dims a bit and Ron quickly jumps in. "Nah, that's part of the perk of being the inventor," he says. "You don't have to take it yourself."

"Dragonbollocks," says Charlie, laughing. "He never used to weasel out before."

George shakes his head. "I'll take just about any one of my products any day. Just not this one."

"Why not?"

"It's supposed to be fun, Charlie."

"Right, yeah - you were a fun little kid!"

"_We_ were, yeah," says George.

Charlie shakes his head, a bit impatiently. "Come on. You were brilliant on your own too-"

"Charlie," George says evenly, "try to remember what I was like when Fred was in St. Mungo's that time with the gnome poison. Now multiply that by about a million."

"Oh come on, live a little," Charlie says, and it's clear he's had too much to drink. The rest of them have clued in, but Charlie's being thick.

Ron wants to give his brother a swift kick, but George gives him a pitying look and puts down his glass, apparently deciding to stop hinting to Charlie to drop it and just get this over with. "I did take it. Found out that you don't forget the knowledge you had as an adult; you just don't know what to do with it." Charlie's grin falters. "I wasn't going to test it on myself, because I thought that's what would happen, but I got splashed with it when the next cauldron over blew up." He pauses. "I knew Fred was dead, but I couldn't understand why he couldn't come back. I wanted Dad or Mum to bring him back, because they always could before. Ron nearly went spare trying to figure out how to settle me down - he couldn't - and trying to find the antidote. Floo-called Percy in a panic when I worked myself into a tantrum because he refused to get Mum and Dad - wild magic and everything, started blowing up things in the lab." Ron briefly meets Percy's eyes before they both look away. "Remember Fred's tantrums when we were little? Think I outdid them all - hit and kicked both of them, even bit Ron when he was dragging me out of the lab and up the stairs. Eventually made myself sick, threw up on Percy, and ended up crying myself to sleep in Ron's lap. Not amusing in any way, for anybody."

Nobody has any idea what to say. Finally Charlie speaks up, shaken. "George, I-"

"Forget about it," George said dismissively. "You couldn't have known."

Ron clears his throat, wondering if he'll ever be able to forget George's small face blotchy with crying, the way his angry shrieks changed to heartbroken sobs as he clung to Ron. The feel of his little body, warm and damp with sweat and tears, gradually going limp in Ron's arms as Ron cradled him close for an hour, wishing he could provide comfort for the adult George the way he could for the child sleeping exhausted on his lap.

"In a way it's good that it happened," George says, "because we decided to add cheering potions to it. Didn't want anybody else to regress straight into misery." Charlie's mouth opens, then shuts, and George rolls his eyes. "It's all right, you wanker. Bloody hell, don't apologize for bringing up the topic," he says irritably, and Charlie nods numbly.

Ron looks away, remembering himself and Percy silently sitting by George's bed that night, Percy holding George's small hand in his, so that he wouldn't wake up alone if the potion didn't wear off in his sleep. George had woken up hours later, back to himself, with a raging headache and feeling, he said, like the Hogwarts Express had steamed right over him. Twice.

A distraction. They need a distraction, because George really, really hates being pitied, and Ron looks at Percy and silently wills him to ask something, say something, discuss cauldron thickness, _anything_.

"What kind of cheering potion?" Percy asks. "Because you are aware that the gold-based ones need to be prepared in pewter-coated cauldrons only, right?"

Ron thanks Percy silently as George picks up the thread, probably a bit more enthusiastically than he normally would. Which is good; hopefully they can all move past this. And Ron can fervently hope, without much faith, that the rest of the family isn't thinking of just how deeply George is still hurting, because Ron can't really think of anything else at this moment.

It had been the first thing George had asked about. Where was Fred. Why couldn't Fred come back, why wouldn't Ron ask Mum and Dad to bring him back, wasn't Fred lonely without George. When the veneer of adult restraint and common sense was gone, what was left was horrifying pain and loneliness. Brokenness. Hidden beneath a relatively well-adjusted, successful businessman who is 'moving on'.

It's enough to make Ron want to throw a few tantrums of his own, have Mum and Dad come and hold him through the night. But they can't. They're all past that, and grief over Fred isn't anything that anybody can be comforted out of, no matter their age.

The party starts to pick up a bit again, and Mum goes to get more pudding, guaranteed to raise spirits. She'll probably make sure Charlie doesn't have more alcohol; though really, Charlie's quite likely to do that himself.

It's going well though, Charlie's thick-headedness aside. The Wee Ones juice was a big hit, as Ron had hoped it would be. Most of their child-related products are, especially the ones they've been making in the last few months. It hasn't escaped Ron's notice that George is doing stuff that's more for kids, and he wonders if George is aware of that at all. Wheezes has always been very kid-friendly - except for the defence products and the adult line that George started last year - but there have been noticeably more products aimed at very small children in the last few months. He's mentioned it to Hermione, who promptly theorized that perhaps George needs to feel like he has some connection to children, since he's being denied much of a connection to his own child. Ron's not sure she's right, but it does seem to make sense.

Doesn't matter. Right now there's a party to steer away from melancholy, because Angel Fred is probably a little pissed off. Or maybe it's just time for Ron to get his own head out of gloomy territory. Angel Fred would probably very much approve of Ron escaping the party with Hermione for a bit, and trying to see if he can get a special birthday boy treat of his own. He makes a mental note to do just that. Later.

"So how's the little one?" Charlie asks George a while later, and Ron's impressed. The rest of them - excluding Mum - tend not to ask George, fearing broaching a rather sensitive subject. Charlie's not a dragon keeper for nothing.

George shrugs. "Getting bigger. Mum sent you the last pictures?"

"Yeah, very cute. Is his hair really that red?"

"No, not really, that was just the lighting. It's mostly dark. He doesn't really look much like us, other than the nose."

It's odd, the way George looks whenever someone asks him about the baby. Like he's not sure if he wants to talk about him or not. Ron can't even imagine what it's like for him to know there's a living breathing human being out there who's his - Ron's decided to just ignore the whole "could be Fred's" thing - but has almost no relationship with him whatsoever.

"So weird that our lot's having kids," Charlie muses. "What d'you suppose yours'll look like?" he asks Bill.

"Hopefully like her mother," Bill says, grinning.

"I hope not," Charlie laughs. "I can just see it now, all the boys at Hogwarts letting each other know, Do NOT look too long at Vicky Weasley, unless you want her curse-breaker dad to send your bollocks all the way to Egypt without you."

"Call her Vicky and Fleur will probably hex _your_ bollocks all the way to Egypt without you," Bill laughs. "You do remember she was a Triwizard Champion, right?"

"Right, sorry, Victoire." Charlie makes a show of anxiously looking around for Fleur, who is deep in conversation with Percy's current girlfriend.

"George," Bill asks curiously, "what was Angelina going to name the kid, that had you all tight-lipped about it at Christmas?"

George blinks. "Exactly what she named him," he says.

Bill's eyebrows go up. "What part of that didn't you like?"

"Well, he should be a Weasley, for one," says Percy.

George shakes his head. "It wasn't the Johnson I minded. She didn't marry either one of us; why should she give our last name to the kid?"

"You didn't like Alexander?" asks Percy.

"No, that's fine. I just didn't want her to name him Fred."

Puzzled looks all around. "Well... all right, I suppose naming him for Fred when she's not sure who the father might be is a sort of..." Percy trails off. "It's not terribly sensitive, I suppose, but-"

"I suppose it would be, if I gave a toss about that," George says impatiently. "Which I don't."

"Then what's the problem?" asks Charlie. "Why not name him Fred?"

"Because Fred's gone," George says bluntly. "I don't see the point in pretending he lives on, in a name given to a kid who may or may not be his son, and who'll never meet him or know anything about him other than what other people tell him. Especially since she's not terribly keen on any of us being around him long enough to tell him anything. About Fred, or anything else."

Ron winces, thankful that his little fantasy of Angel Fred watching over them is just that, a fantasy. He's not sure how Angel Fred would feel about the bitter way George is dismissing him.

"So you never did tell me," George says, turning to Bill, "what did Fleur's midwitch say about the Puking Pastilles antidote?"

Bill blinks, but picks up immediately. "Oh! Right, yeah, well I took it to her and she checked it and says it's fine for pregnant women. It's apparently pretty close to the potion they normally give out, but more effective, she said. She'd like to talk to you about getting more."

"You're joking."

"Asked if you'd ever considered going to work as a Potions Master."

George makes a face. "Ugh. Don't think my hair's greasy enough for that."

Bill laughs. "No. Well in any case, I brought it back to Fleur... and she still wouldn't take it."

"Because she's still pretending Veela don't get nauseous, or because it comes from a joke shop?"

"Joke shop."

"You've married a wise woman, Bill," chuckles George.

**ooo000ooo**

"What is it?" George quickly ushers Angelina into the office and closes the door behind them the next Monday. Her eyes are reddened and she looks like hell, and she's dropped in, out of the blue, without the baby.

"It's Freddie," she says, her voice unsteady.

His heart stops beating. "What? What's happened?"

"He's all right," Angelina says quickly, reading the panic in his voice. "He's fine. He's... but I can't."

"Can't what?"

Angelina shakes her head, her eyes bleak and her voice hoarse. "I can't. I've tried, it's - I'm too messed up. I can't, and... and my mum, she's - she keeps saying I'm being selfish and not thinking of what he needs, and I can't... I can't keep doing this on my own."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note:** Thank you thank you to **tree00faery** and **breve** for betaness! Any remaining mistakes belong solely to me.

Thank you also to MissJoline, lyin', Sabrina Weasley, My Secret Pleasure, kerplank, and dracosoftie for your reviews :)

**Chapter 5**

Angelina opens the door and immediately nearly closes it again.

"No," she whispers miserably. "No, Lee, please, not now. I can't..."

Lee doesn't move, but his face doesn't seem as cold or angry as she would've expected. "Can I come in, please?" he says quietly. "I'm not here to make things harder for you. And I'm not here because George sent me. I just need to understand what's going on. Please?"

Angelina steps back, her stomach in knots. Her stomach is always in knots these days. He steps into her mother's home and she leads him into the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks inanely, as if this were just a social call.

"No, no thanks. Where's the baby?"

"Sleeping."

"Can I see him?"

Angelina leads him into the nursery, not sure why she's doing so. She's not sure of much, these days. Other than the fact that it's a relief when somebody else tells her what to do, as she's made an absolute mess of everything she's tried to do for herself in the last year or so.

Lee looks down at Freddie curiously, but makes no move to touch him or wake him. Angelina averts her eyes from her son, his cheeks rounded and flushed with sleep, mouth slightly open.

Lee nods and they move back down the hall and sit down at the kitchen table. "I know, I know what you're going to say," she begins. "But... you don't understand. I don't... I'm not trying to hurt George, I'm not trying to hurt anybody. I'm trying to do what's right for Freddie, I just can't do this any more-"

And then she stops talking as he moves his chair closer and puts an arm around her. "Hey, I told you, I'm not here to make things worse," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I really wanted to, last night, but George would probably kick my arse if I did that, so I'm just here to... I don't know, be a friend. Or something like that."

Angelina blinks at him through her tears, and then there's a soft wail from down the hall. She automatically stands, moving back to the nursery with heavy feet. Lee follows her.

"What's wrong with him?" asks Lee.

"I don't know, maybe he's hungry," she says hopelessly, picking him up. "I don't know. Everybody says a mum can understand why her baby's crying, but I can't." Whatever the problem is, she's able to get Freddie to settle fairly quickly. Maybe it's Lee's presence that's helping, as the baby sucks his fist and regards Lee curiously.

"Can I hold him?" Lee asks. Angelina nods and Lee carefully takes the baby in his arms. Freddie's eyebrows go up a little at the transfer and he solemnly blows a spit bubble at Lee. Lee holds him gingerly at first, but smiles at him and holds one of his dreadlocks in front of Freddie's face. Freddie immediately moves to take it, but he's not terribly coordinated yet, so his fist bobs in the air nowhere near the interesting object Lee's showing him. His eyebrows go down and his mouth purses up in mild annoyance. Lee chuckles and puts the dreadlock into Freddie's fist. Freddie immediately brings it to his mouth and gravely gums it.

"Are you sure about this?" Lee asks quietly.

Angelina nods. "I'm sure," she says as firmly as she can. "This isn't about me, or George, or Fred. It's about Freddie, and he needs more than I can give him. He needs a stable home with two parents who love him and who want him. He deserves that much." And bloody hell, Angelina so desperately _wants_ to feel as certain as she sounds.

Lee nods, and holds the baby closer.

"What do you think?" she asks him, regretting the question as soon as it's out of her mouth.

"I think you're making a mistake that you're going to regret for the rest of your life," he says, and although his words are harsh, his tone is compassionate.

"If I keep him I'll regret it for the rest of my life," she says. "And so will he."

Lee shakes his head and sighs.

**ooo000ooo**

This is surreal, George thinks as he and Angelina wait at the Magical Child Agency's waiting room, which is far too reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge's office for his comfort. He's not been able to get past his shock since Angelina's visit two days ago. He still can't believe they're here.

He knew she was struggling. He knew her mother wasn't terribly supportive. He knew she was still rather miserably messed up, from the war, the final battle, Fred's death, and all that had happened between them. But it never occurred to him that she might want to get rid of the baby after he was born.

It's not like she's a scared, helpless teenager. She's young to be a mother, and a single mother at that, but women have been having kids by themselves at Angelina's age for a long, long time, and have somehow been able to struggle through. And Angelina has always been such a strong person. He can't help wondering just how much he damaged her, just how much he contributed to her inability to cope. Maybe if he'd been able to remain just a friend to her, she would've let him help her through the pregnancy and beyond. Maybe if he'd pushed her more to let him have a role in the baby's life, she would've turned to him more. Maybe if he'd been less of a mess himself he would've been able to see how badly she was doing. Maybe if he'd been able to get his thoughts together better when she told him what she was doing and he offered to help her she would've considered his offer, instead of telling him she'd made up her mind already...

It's too late for any of that now. They wait together in frilly pastel silence, and are eventually ushered in to an office decorated in bright primary colours, with pictures of happy children all over the walls. After minimal introductions the rosy-faced witch whose office they're in launches into a bright, cheery speech about options, and procedures, and the baby's health, Angelina's health, George's lack of any legal role in the procedure, and it's all surreal and George still can't quite manage to grasp it, somehow.

This can't be his child she's talking about taking away. This can't be the baby he helped Angelina bring into the world. This can't be the child that might be all that's left of his twin. Because he may have felt disconnected from the baby, aside from their brief moment of rapport at his birth, and he may have bleakly wondered if he'd ever feel like anything other than an intruder under false pretenses in the kid's life, but he never thought he might never see him again.

The woman finally ends her chipper little spiel about the Best Interests of the Child, and then she pauses and her features take on an oddly tentative aspect.

"Now. There's something I do have to let you know. It may come as a bit of a shock, but please, rest assured, everything else I have told you so far is still absolutely true."

George and Angelina glance at one another, puzzled.

"Our agency has been rather overwhelmed in the last year or so. Normally we have far more parents hoping to adopt than we have children who need to be adopted, but because of the all the disruption caused by the war..." she trails off. "The problem is, you see, many Muggleborn adults hid their children away and then died or went missing and haven't been found. And some of the ones we did find, the ones who'd been sent to Azkaban... well, some of them were Dementor-kissed, many of them were damaged in other ways. And obviously a lot of other people, who might have wanted to become adoptive parents, were also killed or, erm, damaged in one way or another, and so we have found ourselves with far, far more children than we have wizarding homes to place them in."

She pauses and schools her face into what she probably thinks is a compassionate and heartening expression. "We have looked into international adoption, but it's very time-consuming and requires Ministry supervision and, well, the Ministry has been in shambles for so long, you know." She shakes her head. "So many scandals, in every department, that it makes that option extremely impractical. Especially for very young children, where it's not advisable to leave them in limbo while we scramble to find suitable wizarding homes for them."

George and Angelina stare at her.

"There's no need to worry, though," she says reassuringly. "We will find a good home for him. Remember, most wizard children don't show signs of magic terribly early, and some end up having no magic at all. And as you know, there are people highly trained to spot these things, and of course for our wizarding orpha - erm, children we're putting into care - we'll take special precautions, just in case the manifestation is problematic in any way-"

"Wait, what are you talking about?" George interrupts her. "What do you mean, take special precautions - where are you going to put him?"

The witch blinks. "In a Muggle home, in all likelihood."

George is literally speechless for a moment. "_What?_"

"Your son needs immediate care. He's only two months old, and he needs a family who will look after him and take him in as their own. He does not need to be cared for by strangers while we wait for a space in a wizarding home. I am proposing to take him and place him, within a week, with a Muggle family who will-"

"No!" George doesn't realize he's going to say anything until he's said it. Angelina and the witch stare at him.

He can't. He can't let his son be brought up the way Harry was. He can't.

"No," he repeats. "You can't do this," he says to Angelina.

Angelina's eyes narrow. "I let you come here today as a courtesy, not because you have any right to-"

"I know, I know. But please. Please don't do this. I - I'll take him myself."

There's a ringing silence in the room, and George can't quite believe he said what he just did.

"What?"

"I'll raise him, if you can't," says George. Angelina's eyes widen and he continues quickly. "My parents raised seven kids, I've got fi- erm, four brothers and a sister to help out - I can set up a schedule," he's thinking out loud and hoping Angelina doesn't cut him off any time soon. "I'll get other people to run the shop, hire an office manager - or, look, if you want, I'll sell the place, so there's no other demands on my time and I can live off the proceeds pretty well for at least a few years. I'll set up a schedule for people to help out - even supposing I'm asking people to do it once every two weeks, that should be enough to have somebody helping me out every other day, if not every day-" and he's got a schedule going up in his mind already, assuming his parents and each sibling is willing or able to commit for an evening every two weeks, that's seven evenings over fourteen - no, can't count Charlie in there and Ron's overworked already with Wheezes and the Aurors, so that's five evenings over fourteen but he can probably rope Lee in to help when he's home, so that's six, which is pretty much every other day and if he needs more he can just hire somebody for the job...

Angelina's looking stunned. "George, this isn't - you haven't even been there for him until now, you can't-"

"Miss Johnson, please," says the rosy-faced witch. "Let Mr. Weasley finish. Go on, Mr. Weasley," she nods encouragingly.

George takes a quick breath and does not allow himself to think of anything other than Oh Godric, please, let this work. Because letting the baby go to strangers is just not something he could possibly live with. Not on top of everything else he's fucked up this year.

**ooo000ooo**

"She wanted to do _what_?" Mum asks, horrified, as she, Dad, Ron and Harry gather at George and Lee's flat that night.

"_Wants_ to, Mum," George corrects grimly. "And I can't do a bloody thing about it without her permission, not without a lot of help. I have no rights, and she won't give her approval, and the Magical Child Agency won't give their approval either, if I don't have a plan and a lot of support."

"But how..." Dad's face is ashen and George wishes he could take that look away, reassure him that he won't lose his grandchild, but he can't. "If you just say you're willing to take him, then why-"

"Because." He takes a deep breath. "Because I've barely seen him since he was born. I'm single, I own my own business, I'm only twenty, I don't know a bloody thing about babies, and I don't even know for sure that I'm his father. The social worker said that if I'll have to show a good plan for taking care of him." He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "I don't want to - everybody's already done a lot for me, and for the shop, and I don't want to ask, but... I can't let him be brought up by Muggles." He meets Harry's eyes. "I _can't_. I know they're not all like your relatives, but - if that's Fred's son, or even if he's mine - your relatives put bars on your bloody windows, Harry-"

"They're not all like that," Harry says quietly. "Hermione's parents aren't."

"They love her, yeah," says George. "But they not really part of her life. D'you remember when she got her Prefect badge? She was so happy to have something to tell them that they could actually understand. And Angelina's mum - Merlin, she doesn't understand any of Angelina's life. And she doesn't want to, either."

"George... are you sure about this?" Ron asks.

"No, bloody hell, I'm not sure. But I have to try. And I'll need help."

"Of course we'll help," said Dad quickly. "You didn't even need to ask. I'm sure Percy and Bill and Fleur will say the same."

"You know Hermione and Ginny'll help as soon as they're done school," says Ron, and Harry nods. "Wouldn't surprise me if we can even get them permission to leave on weekends until then."

George nods, relieved. "Look... it's my own mess, I know. I should deal with it myself. But I don't want to make the kid pay for my mistakes."

"No, of course not."

"Molly?" says Dad.

Mum is staring at George with a strange expression on her face. "George," she says slowly. "I don't think you understand what taking care of a baby entails."

"I don't," he admits. "But I have to anyway, Mum. I can't not try."

"Are you doing this for the baby? Or for you?"

"Does it matter? Do you want him to be brought up by strangers?"

"Molly-"

"No, Arthur, let me speak." She turns to George. "Harry's right. Not all Muggles are like the Dursleys. The Agency's offering to place him with a good, loving family. Two parents, who have probably wanted a baby for a long time and are prepared to take care of him because they want to, not because they have to."

Everybody's gaping at her now.

"I've had to push you to even go and see him. You've no idea what you're getting into."

"Probably not," George admits. "But... doing things without knowing what I was getting in to is sort of a habit for me. At least, it used to be."

"Setting up the shop? Going to war?" There are tears in Mum's eyes, but her voice is hard and uncompromising. "You did both with Fred. He can't help you now."

"Molly!"

"Mum!"

Mum doesn't acknowledge the astonished gasps from the others, merely stares at George, her mouth in a tight line, daring him to challenge her. Her words are like knives, and a large part of George wants to acknowledge that she's right.

"You haven't done a single thing since Fred died without relying on other people," Mum continues, and George can't really argue with that either.

"That's not fair!" Ron says furiously.

"Molly, that's enough-" Dad says, really angry now, and George puts out a hand to stop them both.

"No, I haven't," he says. "But I have to do this."

"Take care of a baby you've hardly seen since he was born? You'll just somehow sort out how to be a parent?"

"Other people somehow sort it out."

"Angelina obviously couldn't. What makes you think you'll be any different?"

"Nothing, other than hopefully I'll have more than just one person helping." George holds her gaze. "He's my son. Or as good as, anyway. I can't give him up without even trying."

"What if we all said no?" asks Mum, and Ron and Dad and Harry all open their mouths to speak but George answers her.

"Probably hire a house-elf, for starters," he says promptly. "And keep trying to convince the Agency. I'm not giving up on him. If Angelina has her way, he'll be taken away and we'll both lose all rights to him for good."

"Wait, doesn't she get some time to change her mind?" asks Harry.

George shakes his head. "No. Once it's done, it's done, and there would be no going back, even if she wanted to."

"Do you think she would?"

"I think so, eventually." George hesitates. "Though to be honest I can't believe she's doing this at all," he admits. "So I can't really say."

"Is that why you're doing this, then?" Mum says, her voice tense. "You're going to take him and hope she'll come back? To the baby, or to you?"

Fuck, that one hurt. Dad and Ron look about ready to explode, but Mum's on a roll and George realizes it's been a while since he felt the brunt of her anger. Since May Second, actually.

"How long are you going to wait for her?" Mum asks.

"If she hasn't come back in a year, I'll petition the Wizengamot to transfer parental rights to me," says George. "Until then, she can come back." He narrows his eyes. "To the baby. Not to me. That's over."

"And what will you do if she does? Just give him up?"

George shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. I can't think that far ahead, Mum, I just need to have something in place for the day after tomorrow at the Child Agency meeting. If you aren't going to help, fine, thanks for letting me know, I'll-"

"I'm helping," Ron says firmly, and Harry nods.

"No you're not," George says promptly. "You're already in Auror Training and moonlighting at Wheezes. And Harry, you've got Teddy to help look after as well. And Lee's out of town a lot." He thinks for a moment. "Right. I'll hire a house-elf."

"That'll make Hermione happy," says Ron. "I'd suggest Kreacher, but he's a little scary."

"George." Mum speaks up again, and she sounds completely different now. George glances at her impatiently, because although he's got to admit that some of what she's said so far is true, he's got more important things to do than continue to argue with her right now. "You don't need to do that. Of course we'll help."

He blinks at her, off balance. "What?"

"I didn't want you doing this for the wrong reasons," she says, and takes a deep, slightly shaky breath. "It's too important. I just needed to know that you _want_ to do this. Not because you have to, and not because of Angelina, but because he's your son."

"Molly," Dad's voice is reproachful. "You didn't need to say all those terrible-"

Mum shakes her head and wipes at her eyes. "No, I shouldn't - I'm sorry. It's not true that you've relied on everybody else-"

"Yeah, it is," George interrupts her grimly.

"But you've done so much yourself. You've been so lost, this whole year..."

"Yeah, well." George shrugs uncomfortably and hopes Mum doesn't get weepy again. He really doesn't have time for that right now. "I shouldn't have let Angelina cut me off from the kid. Should've realized he'd need a dad whether she wanted me there or not."

"What's done is done. You did what you thought was right. You didn't want to make Angelina's life more difficult. I taught you to be a gentleman and you were trying to do that."

George shrugs again.

"You should stay at The Burrow," says Mum. "We've certainly got the room, and you'd have people around all the time. I've some experience with babies-"

"Mum-"

"Not forever, dear, only until you're sure enough of what you're doing. A few weeks. It'll probably help convince the Magical Child Agency decide in your favour as well."

George takes a deep breath. Right. He can do this.

**ooo000ooo**

George rings the doorbell and Ginny glances around the small suburban neighbourhood where Angelina lives, feeling no curiosity whatsoever. She's not here to get to see how Muggles live, or visit with Angelina, or do anything but rescue her brother's child from people who don't want him.

Ginny just hopes she won't say anything unforgivable to Angelina. It's incomprehensible to her that Angelina could seriously be capable of giving away what Fred left her. And Ginny's sure Angelina does believe it's Fred's child, as Ginny does, despite the fact that because of the timing, odds are it's George's. In part because of how Angelina's treated George - as if he's got no more connection to the baby than any random bloke on the street - but also because George has his entire life to beget more children. This is all Fred will ever have. And Angelina's just throwing it away.

George rings the doorbell again and they stand, waiting and fidgeting. George checks his watch, but Ginny knows they're on time. She's being very careful to do everything exactly right, so that if Angelina changes her mind and decides to fight the Wizengamot's decision to allow George to take the baby, at least she won't be able to hold any of the Weasleys' own conduct against them. Ginny's had to ask permission to leave school in the middle of studying for NEWTs to help George with this, but it's well worth it.

The door opens and Ginny and George are ushered in by Angelina's mother after only the barest of civilities. Which is fine; they just want to get the baby and leave. They're led into the baby's room and they quietly put Freddie's things into a bag that Hermione loaned them, using the shrinking spells Hermione taught them. She notices Angelina's mother looking away from their magic use in distaste.

Throughout, Ginny keeps stealing glances at her nephew, who is sitting in a high chair studying them seriously. She's only ever seen pictures of him up till now and can't believe how tiny he is, and how perfect. He's got a mass of dark brown frizzy curls, dark solemn eyes, and his skin has gone from very light brown to medium brown since his birth. He doesn't look much like either of his parents, although the nose is pure Weasley. And he has no idea that this severe, hateful looking woman who should be a doting grandmother is in the process of getting rid of him.

No words are spoken other than, "Hold this open, Gin," and "Do you have his nappies?" Angelina's mother curtly motions at a pile of things left in the front room. They won't need the crib, although Dad would probably be interested in the little monitor. They'll probably get rid of most of what they're taking. Or maybe keep for Angelina, assuming she ever shows up for her kid again.

It is unreal how much equipment comes with a baby. The bassinet, more clothing than Ginny has ever seen in one place, wipes, diapers, a charmed mobile, toys, plush stuffed things, a toy Thestral, all sorts of bizarre things. Finally they're done, and all that's left is Freddie. Ginny picks him up carefully and he brings a tiny hand to her face, his dark eyes very serious.

Ginny's heart gives a pang as she breathes in Freddie's scent - milk, and some kind of baby soap - and she realizes she's been wondering if Angelina was going to change her mind at the last minute. Part of her even hoped she would, and she's fairly sure part of George did too.

Angelina's not even there. There's just her mother, arms crossed, staring at Ginny as she touches Freddie's silky cheek and smiles at him, unable to believe that she's finally getting to hold Fred's son. To feel close to Fred, for the first time in almost a year.

Ginny cuddles him close, marveling at the soft warm weight of him in her arms, glances towards Mrs. Johnson and has to suppress a sudden burning rage. Angelina's an adult, competent enough to be a Quidditch Captain and get into Animal Healer apprenticeship and survive the war as a Muggleborn. Surely if her mother had given her any help at all, she would've been able to be a mother as well. Instead this woman convinced her to give her baby away. Ginny can't understand it.

"Is Angelina going to come and say goodbye?" she asks, keeping her voice neutral. The baby purses his mouth into an O, waving his hands.

Angelina's mother shakes her head. "She said goodbye this morning."

"Where is she?"

Mrs. Johnson frowns. "Why should you care?"

"She's Freddie's mum," says Ginny evenly. "I'd like to know why she's not here."

"She checked into a hospital," Mrs. Johnson says after a moment. "A _real_ hospital. With people who can actually help her."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She's depressed."

George and Ginny look at each other, confused. "You sent her to a hospital because she's sad?" Ginny asks slowly. "A Muggle hospital? Why?"

Mrs. Johnson glares at her. "A proper hospital. Instead of waving sticks at her and giving her foul drinks, she'll have a proper doctor and anti-depressants." She pauses. "I don't suppose either of you has heard of post-partum depression." Their baffled looks are answer enough. Mrs. Johnson rolls her eyes. "Of course. What a surprise. This is precisely why she's not going to have anything more to do with you lot."

Ginny blinks. "Our lot?"

Mrs. Johnson stares at her, hard, for a long moment, and Ginny is about to give up and just leave when she finally speaks.

"This stupid world of yours. Do you know what your world did to my family?" She crosses her arms. "It destroyed us. We were expected to give up our daughter for seven years, except for six weeks in the summer. She lost contact with all her normal friends. We couldn't understand a thing she talked about when she came home. She was part of a sports team - we told her to tell her normal friends it was football but of course how could she say she was Captain of a football team when she couldn't play at all?" She gives a hard, bitter laugh. "And she was good at Charms. _Charms_, but had no idea about algebra or calculus or biology or chemistry or anything real. Her father and I split over it - I _defended_ her choice, I bloody well _made_ him leave her at that school." She shakes her head. "And he was right all along," she says bitterly. "Then she had to hide from a madman who wanted to kill people like her - we couldn't see her, contact her in any way, though apparently she could make the time to see you and your brother," she says spitefully to George, who hasn't said a word to her so far. "And then I finally got my daughter back, emotionally scarred, and pregnant, and going farther and farther into a depression."

Ginny's mouth has dropped open some time during Mrs. Johnson's bitter diatribe. She closes it.

Mrs. Johnson takes a deep breath. "Enough is enough. Your world has given us absolutely nothing of any value. She's done with it."

"Does she agree with that?" asks George, speaking for the first time, and Ginny pats Freddie's back soothingly, though of course he can't possibly understand his grandmother's hateful words.

"She's in no position to agree or disagree," says Mrs. Johnson grimly. "She's in no shape to decide anything in her life right now. They'll be able to help her in the hospital. Although she'll have a time explaining to them the hell she's been through. They'll think she's a different kind of lunatic if she tells them the whole truth." She takes a deep breath. "And once she gets out she's going to need some basic skills training, in all the things she didn't get while she was in the clutches of your lot."

Ginny holds Freddie close. He grabs her hair and brings it to his mouth, making a small squealing sound at Ginny and regarding her curiously. "How can you make her give away her child?"

"It'll be painful," says Mrs. Johnson coldly. "But far less painful than killing him."

"What?" Ginny and George have spoken at the same time and her arms tighten around Freddie. She can't quite believe she heard right.

"It happens!" says Mrs. Johnson angrily. "It happens, sometimes when a mother is so depressed that she starts to think she and her baby would be better off dead. They can't think straight, they do desperate things. There is no way I will let my daughter reach that point."

"What hospital is she in?" George asks.

Mrs. Johnson presses her lips together. "I'm not about to tell you. Although I suppose you've got ways of finding out." Her expression is still cold and hateful but now there's pleading in her eyes as well. "If you care about her at all, you'll let her alone. Let her get better." She pauses. "I think you've done enough to hurt her, don't you? To keep her from getting past your brother and getting on with her life?"

George draws in his breath sharply, and Ginny can almost feel the stabbing pain Angelina's mother has just caused him.

She balances the baby on her hip and puts a comforting hand on George's arm. "I still don't see how you can do this," she says quietly.

"I'm her mother. I'll do whatever I have to, to protect her." Mrs. Johnson glances at Freddie, then back at George, whose lips are pressed together. "Someday you might feel the same way about him. It's what parents are supposed to do." She smiles grimly. "Even Muggle parents, believe it or not."

"What do you mean, even Muggle parents?" says Ginny. And George should be saying something. Once upon a time he would've been saying all sorts of things, but instead he's gently tugging on Ginny's sleeve, signaling her that they should just leave.

"Muggles, that's what you lot call us, isn't it. As if we're not even the same species as you. Angelina said your family was different, that you didn't think you were superior to us." She laughs humourlessly. "So much for that. When you heard Freddie was going to a _Muggle_ family, that was enough for you to suddenly discover your paternal duty, was it?"

George stares at her. "Tell Angelina she's welcome to come back for him," he says, his voice hollow. "She's got a year. And tell her... tell her I hope she gets better soon."

They leave the house and walk down the street, George carrying Freddie's things and Ginny carrying Freddie. She doesn't know what to say, and can feel that George is holding himself together tightly, so she tries to distract them both by talking to the baby instead. He looks at her seriously as she tells him her name, tells him where they're going, tells him who he's going to meet. She'd thought he would cry at being taken away from his grandmother by strangers, but he appears to be quietly taking in the world around him.

"She's wrong, you know," Ginny ventures to say to George after a while. "About Angelina. It's not your fault that-"

George shakes his head. "Don't, Gin," he says curtly. They walk on in silence for a bit.

"You're not prejudiced against Muggles, either," Ginny mutters quietly.

George shrugs uncomfortably. "No... but I'm glad they said he'd go to a Muggle family. Felt like the final straw. Gave me the kick in the arse that I needed to wake up and _do_ something."

Ginny nods fervently. She's rather glad too. She's not sure she could've ever forgiven George for letting Freddie be taken away by strangers, Muggle or not.

"You know," George says as they near the public Floo station. "Her mum's probably right about one thing at least."

"About what?"

"She may be better off in the Muggle world. She certainly wasn't getting anything from our world."

"What?"

"You heard her mum. It hasn't been easy for her."

"Hasn't been easy for you either," mutters Ginny. But George has a point. A large part of her hates Angelina fiercely right now - for treating George the way she has, for wanting to give away Fred's child, for everything. But it couldn't have been easy for her, isolated from her Muggle family and friends for years, her parents splitting up, hiding from a madman, losing the boy she loved, getting pregnant, having a baby and trying to take care of it with the 'help' of a mother who wanted nothing more than to get rid of it...

Everyone has a breaking point. Hard to feel terribly forgiving right now, though, while holding a beautiful two-month-old child who has no idea his own mother has rejected him.

"What will you tell Freddie?" Ginny asks George. "If she never comes back? What will you tell him about his mum?" She hesitates. "And about Fred?"

George shrugs. "That I wanted him. That Fred would've too, if he'd known. And that his mum wanted to take care of him, but she couldn't, and it wasn't his fault."

Ginny pauses and shifts the baby to her shoulder, caressing his soft curls. He makes a soft cooing sound.

George stops and puts down the bag, rubbing a hand across his forehead miserably. "Fuck, Ginny," he says, gazing at the baby, who stares back at him curiously. "I've no idea what I'm doing here. What if this is a mistake?"

Ginny has to look away. The twins taught her that anything was possible, if you just put your mind to it. George having doubts is such a painful thing to see. "We're all going to help," she says, forcing cheer into her voice. "You'll both be fine."

George's eyes go shuttered and he nods, his stoic faade firmly in place again, and Ginny wants to kick herself. He doesn't need pat reassurances; he needs to be able to talk to somebody, to have someone actually listen instead of cheerfully putting him off. She doesn't know how to be that person, though.

They enter the Floo station and Ginny casts a spell on Freddie to keep him calm and quiet during the trip. She's nervous, but it goes well - Freddie's a lot less unsettled than she is as she stumbles out of the Floo with him, and is caught by Harry.

The Burrow has had its share of odd gatherings in the last year, but this may be one of the strangest. Almost the entire family's there, all eager to meet the newest member, but they're all trying to be relatively calm and quiet - for them - so he won't be too frightened. He seems fine, though, gazing about with curious eyes, occasionally looking like he's searching for someone and not finding them. Ginny's heard that two-month-olds don't have enough of a long-term memory to be able to understand something like the absence of a mother who should be there, but he's got to feel something's off.

So far so good, though. Freddie appears to be a very quiet child, which is odd because neither twin was ever quiet in his life and Angelina's not exactly a shrinking violet either.

And it's so strange that this is where the future is going; Ginny's generation has grown up, and a new generation is on its way. In less than two months there'll be another new Weasley, and who knows how many others after that. Not from George or Ron or Ginny - George really wasn't old enough to have a kid, and Ginny doesn't suppose she or Ron will want to for another ten years at least, and actually Charlie's married to his dragons so he's pretty much right out too - but who knows, maybe Bill and Fleur will have another one soon. Or maybe Percy will get married and start a family. Stranger things have happened.

Stranger things are happening right now, as a matter of fact, as Percy holds the baby and talks to him in a sort of sing-song voice about dragons, and why people are not allowed to hatch their own dragon eggs. Freddie's fists are bobbing excitedly in the air and he's coming as close to smiling as Ginny's seen him so far. Percy's finally found someone in the family who finds him fascinating.

George still hasn't held the baby, Ginny has noticed. There's no shortage of people who want to hold him, talk to him, make silly faces and try to make him laugh - although nobody's succeeded so far - but George himself seems somewhat ill-at-ease.

"He should be breastfed," Hermione muses as she takes her turn holding him, feeding him from a bottle.

George looks down at his chest. "Erm, unless you're offering, that may not be doable."

"Well, I've heard there are ways to induce milk in males," says Hermione. George's eyes widen. "Although apparently as far as Healers can tell, nutritionally it's no better than MagicMilk."

"Why would anybody induce it then?" asks Percy curiously.

"Bonding," says Hermione, smiling at Freddie, who makes a gurgling sound at her around the bottle. "It's supposed to make you feel closer to the baby if you're nourishing him yourself, rather than through a bottle."

"I think maybe we can bond with a bottle," says George. "Otherwise I'd have to buy a whole new wardrobe."

"Would you do it, though, if it was nutritionally better?" Hermione asks.

"Grow a pair?" George chuckles. "You know, we do stock products that'll give you the opposite body parts of whatever you've currently got."

"You're a joke shop."

"Exactly."

"Speaking of joke shops, how's the search for an office manager going?" asks Percy.

"The one you told me about looks good. I've got three interviews set up for tomorrow, and Verity's willing to come in and do a lot of overtime till whoever it is gets settled in. I'm paying her time and a half."

"All right, George, Freddie's looking a bit tired," Mum says, getting up and gazing fondly at the baby, who has turned his face away from the bottle and is rubbing his eyes. "Let's get you both settled. I've put you in Percy's old room, it's the cleanest." She waves her wand and floats Freddie's things in front of her, and motions to George. "Come on, dear, bring the baby, follow me," she says.

George looks a bit startled, but recovers quickly and approaches Hermione. He hesitates a moment and swallows nervously, then picks up the baby. The baby's hands flail in the air and one of them connects with George's nose, which the baby promptly tries to pull into his mouth. George gives a soft chuckle and pulls back slightly, then gently touches Freddie's nose with his finger. The baby tilts his chin up and gazes at George curiously, gumming his finger.

"Going to have to get used to this, aren't we?" George says softly to the baby, who gurgles at him indistinctly. George shifts him to his shoulder, and follows Mum up the stairs.

**ooo000ooo**

George feels sometimes like everything's sharp-edged these days. Like he was sort of wrapped up in cotton for months on end, between the morning after he and Angelina slept together that first time and the moment he said he was taking the baby. Wrapped up in guilt and helplessness and frustration, unable to do anything other than force himself to keep moving and try to keep grief and anger and shame from eating him up. Like the world itself couldn't get through the layers of misery suffocating him.

The world is certainly getting through these days, for good and bad. This is one of the toughest and most frustrating things he's ever done, George thinks almost every single day, and he doubts himself - his ability to do this right, and his wisdom in choosing to make the attempt - on an hourly basis. But it's better than where he was a few weeks ago, just powerlessly drifting. Angelina dropped out of his life and he accepted it. Angelina told him she was having a baby but didn't want him involved and he accepted that too. Angelina decided to sleep with him again, Angelina broke up with him, Angelina kept him away from the baby, and he accepted all of without it ever occurring to him that he could do anything about it.

This is better, even though the baby requires constant attention, constant care, constant vigilance, and he finds himself inexplicably thinking of Mad-Eye Moody once in a while and wondering what he'd say about how George is spending his days right now.

The baby needs to be fed. Burped. Changed. Changed again. Walked, held, changed, bathed, comforted, changed, fed, put to sleep, changed again. He cries and George often has no idea why. He gets an odd rash and George has no clue what it is. He worries because the baby seems happy enough, but doesn't smile very much. Mum helps, a lot, (that cry means gas, the rash means he's teething, and Percy didn't smile much either - which is really not comforting) but lets George figure things out on his own far more than he thought she would. On a few occasions George has to swallow his pride and ask before she comes to help.

It's a learning experience for all of them. Bill was old enough to take care of the twins and Ron and Ginny when they were born, and Charlie apparently helped feed Ginny a few times, but none of the rest of them have any experience and they're all learning right along with George. It's too bad that it took the loss of his twin to make George really appreciate his five other siblings.

The baby first smiles at George three days after he arrives at The Burrow. He's woken up from a ridiculously short nap and as George enters their room he turns his head, sees George, and his serious little face breaks into a beaming smile. George stops in his tracks, astonished, and suddenly his irritation at the shortness of the baby's nap disappears and he picks him up and holds him close, and finds himself smiling back.

And it doesn't matter that the first Weasley who ever got a smile from him was Percy. It's actually kind of funny, now - especially as Percy had been flailing for some way to soothe the baby at the time, and had started reading him a broom manufacturer's regulations handbook. Fred would've found it hysterical.

**ooo000ooo**

Lee knows that George didn't expect to be in the shop today. He'd planned to either get _very_ drunk, or spend the day at the graveyard, or take a dose of Sleeping Draught strong enough to knock himself out for the entire day. With the baby in the picture, he really can't do any of that. He's not working, of course, but he and Lee need to go through the shop on their way upstairs, and they stop to watch the place bustling with activity on this, the busiest day of the year.

It hasn't been a bad day, so far, in large part because of the baby. Lunch was at The Burrow and Lee and George soon realized that the baby has single-handedly given everyone an easy way through the Birthday Dilemma, as George has been universally greeted with variations of "Happy Birthday George How's the Baby?" everywhere he has gone today. It's actually pretty amusing. To George, anyway, which is what matters.

Lee and George stop just inside the shop door and gaze at the controlled chaos within. Wibble Wobbles are doing good business, judging from the number of customers falling over and bouncing back up again, as are the Chicken Fingers, one of the last things George invented just before he went on paternity leave. And there are a lot of children around; the kid-related items are selling like mad. A quick glance in the direction of the back room shows the Defence items aren't doing so well this year, which Lee finds supremely uplifting.

Actually, there are a _lot_ of kids running around, Lee realizes. Dozens of little kids, four or five years old. The new clerk, Lee can't remember his name, is desperately trying to herd them all together and looking hunted.

George chuckles. "I told Verity it probably wasn't a great idea to give out free samples of Wee Ones today." He glances at a set of shelves and does a double take. "Oi, never mind, guess she was right after all," he says.

"What's that?"

He gestures towards the empty shelves with his free hand. "That's our entire stock gone."

They step farther into the shop and the noise is stunning. Freddie straightens up and emits a high-pitched squeal, then looks at George and seems to relax a bit, looking around and almost smiling. They start to patiently weave through the crowd of customers, several of whom recognize George and call out greetings.

"George? Oi!" says a familiar voice from the crowd.

"Oliver!" says Lee, and Oliver ducks a stream of tiny chickens flying out of a startled customer's fingers and joins George and Lee.

"Didn't know I'd find you here today!" says Oliver, grinning widely. "Thought you were still at your parents'."

"No, came back last week," says George.

"Where the hell have you been?" asks Lee, clapping Oliver on the back.

"First string for Puddlemere, mate."

"Puddlemere's at home, you berk, why haven't you been around?" George says.

"D'you know how much I practice?"

"You never call, you never write, you fickle bastard," Lee grouses. "And the way your Chasers are playing these days I'm amazed to hear you say you're practicing at all."

"I would be too if I wasn't there, but don't tell my coach," says Oliver. "All the more reason for me to put in longer hours on the pitch. Godric, he's getting big!" he says, staring at Freddie.

George takes Freddie's right hand and holds it out to Oliver. "Say hello to the only hope for Puddlemere this year," he tells him.

Oliver grins and touches the bemused baby's hand, and the baby babbles at him, holding on to his finger firmly. "So how's it going, this dad business?" Oliver asks curiously.

George thinks for a moment. "Erm, my life has turned to shit, to be honest."

Oliver blinks, taken aback. "Oh. Erm. I'm... sorry?"

George laughs. "No, I mean that literally. Merlin, he's so tiny, you'd think he'd make less of it. He's unbelievable. All the time. My life is all about shit." Oliver laughs, relieved. George shakes his head at the baby. "Great kid, but too much output, you know?" The baby blinks at him and then presses his lips together, squinting his eyes. His face gets a bit red and he makes a small grunt, and George rubs a weary hand over his face. "You know, I meant that as an observation, not a suggestion," he tells Freddie.

Oliver's sniggering. "Like father like son. I always said you were full of shit."

"So was Fred," says George. "Appropriate, isn't it?" The three of them share a laugh but Lee wonders if it'll ever stop hurting to hear Fred referred to in the past tense. And then suddenly his entire world is filled with fragrant sticky red.

"Sorry! Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lee hears someone saying as he pushes sticky goo out of his eyes and blinks. A highly embarrassed-looking man is standing there, holding the hand of a little girl who's laughing delightedly and pointing a tiny empty jar at Lee.

"Giant Jam Slam! Giant Jam Slam!" she shrieks, and the man rolls his eyes.

"I'm sorry, that's my... wife," he says, glaring down at the little girl. "She'll be properly embarrassed when the Wee Ones juice wears off. I'm so sorry-"

Lee laughs. "No, that's... that's all right," he says, wiping the goo off his face and taking a tentative taste. Strawberry jam. Good on toast, not so good on hair. Or sliding down his back and between his... ugh. He flicks a jam-coated hand irately at George and Oliver, who are both unscathed and laughing at him. Freddie's mouth and eyes are wide and he also appears to have caught some of the blast on his back.

"Here," George says, handing the baby over and taking out his wand. "See if I can remember how to get rid of it... know _Tergeo_ doesn't work..."

Verity comes hurrying around the corner and stops short. "Mr. Weasley!" She hesitates for a split second, then gives him a wide grin. "So glad you're here. I've a quick question: some of the Owl deliveries from Hogwarts came back this morning; should we do Filch Repellent and SuperOwl, or wait to send them tomorrow?"

"Hogwarts? Filch Repellent," George says promptly, and Verity looks triumphant.

"Thought so! I'll tell Felicity." She speaks into a small loudspeaker-shaped ring on her finger. "Felicity! Filch and Owl, I was right!" She catches a small child darting through the crowd and smoothly redirects him so that he's running the other way, towards a harried-looking woman who's evidently been chasing him. "Oh by the way happy birthday, Mr. Weasley! Ooh," she says, turning to Freddie immediately, "Aren't you getting big? Holding up your own head, what a big boy!"

George meets Lee's eyes, amused. Happy Birthday George How's the Baby indeed.

Lee still can't get used to the shop going full-tilt without either twin at the helm. He knows George often misses it - particularly on those days when he's had very little sleep and Freddie's cranky - but the distance has also been good for him, in many ways. The shop was a place that couldn't help reminding George of what he'd lost. The baby is nothing like that. George has told Lee that he sometimes realizes he's been too busy and too confused with the challenges of fatherhood to really miss Fred as much as before. Which doesn't surprise Lee in the least; he's away a lot so he doesn't get the full benefit of seeing what life with an infant is like, but for one thing the sheer volume of food and waste that comes with them is unreal. If this is what Angelina was dealing with, with nobody but an impatient, resentful mother to 'help' her, Lee's starting to understand her decision more and more as time goes on.

George is gazing at the shop with a yearning look, and Lee can almost feel how much he wishes he could still be part of it. Suddenly he's jostled by a customer. "Sorry!" says a customer, then does a double take. "Oh! Weasley!"

George blinks, then smiles at the man. "Mr. Kinnen," he says. "Haven't seen you in a long time."

The customer shakes his hand, grinning. "Too long. Bloody hell I've missed this place." He glances around. "Think the last time was... damn, right before you two closed the shop."

"Yeah, sounds about right," George nods.

"Terrible, that," says Kinnen. "Diagon really wasn't the same without you. Mind you, I left about a week after that too."

"Oh that's right your wife was Muggleborn, wasn't she? She'd already moved to France or something?"

"Belgium, yeah." Kinnen shakes his head. "Yeah, thank Godric she had a cousin there, helped us out. We settled in for the long haul."

"When did you come back?"

"Actually, we never did," Kinnen says seriously. "Found we liked it there. And there was too much... I mean after everything that happened, my wife didn't really want to come back here where a lot of her friends and family had gone missing or what have you. And where people like Dolores Umbridge were still... well, you know. Too many bad memories. Couldn't blame her, at all." He shrugs. "Belgium's been good to us. I'm just here for my sister's wedding."

"Well, good that you both made it through," says George, and Lee nods. He's heard this kind of story many times in the last months.

"Ah, look at me, getting us all serious in a joke shop, on April Fool's!" Kinnen says wryly. "And your birthday too, if I remember correctly?" he says to George.

"Yeah, it is," George smiles.

"Well, happy birthday, then!" says the customer. "How's it treating you so far?"

"Thanks," George laughs. "Erm... it's been an interesting day," he says.

"Rather fitting, you two born on April Fool's," says Kinnen.

"Yeah, Mum always said that should've clued her in to what she was in for." George chuckles. "And we were two weeks early too - should've also clued her in that she'd never be able to stop us from doing whatever the hell we wanted to do."

Kinnen laughs. "So where's your brother?"

"Which one?"

"The other birthday boy!"

George's eyes widen slightly. "Oh!" He exchanges a startled glance with Lee and Oliver, all looking somewhat at a loss. "He, er, he died." The man's smile is replaced by a grimace of shock. "Erm. I... sorry, for the life of me I haven't been able to figure out how to say this tactfully. Yeah, he died. Almost a year ago."

"You mean... wait, Fred? Your twin?"

"Yeah. At the Battle of Hogwarts."

Kinnen 's face has paled and he looks like he needs to sit down. "You're joking."

"Almost always, but not about this," says George.

"But I thought... I read a Weasley in the casualty list, but I thought - wasn't it William?"

"Our brother Bill, no, that was a misprint. Shock to his wife, that - and to Bill, too. He's fine. It was Fred."

"I just... I never thought... I saw Wheezes open up again, I never dreamed you'd... all by yourself?"

George shakes his head. "Not by myself. I still have four brothers and a sister. And our parents and friends all chipped in. Our younger brother Ron practically lives here, when he's not in Auror training." He pauses and repeats quietly, "Not by myself."

Kinnen is still looking shaken. "I'm... I'm so sorry. I'm such an arse, it never... God, this must be awful."

George shrugs. "Well it's been a crap year, definitely."

"Your parents must've... oh God. Losing a child..."

"Well, there were seven of us kids, and we were all at the Battle. And our parents, and all our significant others as well. It was a miracle so many of us survived. Not sure Fred would see it that way, but there you go." He looks down at the baby. "But, you know, life goes on. Plus I think there's Death Eaters still suffering from the booby traps we left on this place. I like to think Fred lives on in the boils covering their behinds, I'm sure he'd love that." He smiles at the baby and takes him out of Lee's arms. "And there's a new member in the family." The baby gurgles and grabs at his hair. "His name's Fred."

The man looks at Freddie, and back at Lee, confused. "Is he... whose..."

George hesitates for a split second. "Mine." He transfers the baby to his shoulder and smiles at the startled customer. "Speaking of, Freddie here needs a change. He's a lot cuter, but somewhat less continent, than his namesake." He turns to Oliver. "You'll join us upstairs after you're done shopping?" Oliver nods and George turns back to Kinnen. "Say hello to your wife for me. Oh and tell Verity I said 20% off any WonderWitch product you buy for her. Sales of Domestic Goddess Gummies haven't been the same since you two left."

Kinnen smiles weakly and nods his thanks, and George takes Freddie up the stairs, Lee following.

"Hope that sale's not scuppered," George mutters. "He was a bloody good customer."

Lee nods. A faux pas like that can't put one in a mood to buy joke products. On the other hand, the man may decide to make it up to George by going on a bit of a spree. They enter the flat and George goes to his bedroom to change the baby, and Lee decides to change his own clothing too. Sticky strawberry-flavoured underwear is not much fun without a good-looking bird anywhere close to enjoy it with.

This is oddly similar to every April Fool's Day since his first year at Hogwarts, thinks Lee as he carefully spells the jam out of his hair. It's Fred, George and Lee, for the tenth year in a row. It's not the same, though. The original Fred had bowel control, for one thing, which is a fairly important thing for a best mate to have. Supposedly that'll come some day, for the baby.

Lee pauses in the middle of his jam removal as he realizes an odd thing about the conversation with the poor bloke downstairs. He's never heard George call the baby Fred before. Or his son. He's only ever the baby, or the sprog, or the offspring, or the little one. He wonders if George is aware of that, and what he thinks of it if he is.

**ooo000ooo**

"Angelina's out, George," Lee suddenly blurts out over dinner one night a few weeks later, and George's fork stops halfway to his mouth.

"Sorry?"

"She's not in the Muggle hospital any more."

"How do you know?"

"I talked to Katie today. Says she saw her on Friday."

George's eyes go to their calendar. It's Tuesday.

She's out. She's been out for at least five days, and hasn't come to see him or their son.

George takes a deep breath. "All right, then. Thanks." He takes a bite of his pasta, chews and swallows, then realizes he's not going to be able to finish the last third of it. He glances at the baby, who's falling asleep on his lap, and pushes the plate away. "Right, I've got to get him changed before he falls asleep."

Lee gazes at him worriedly. "Are you..." he trails off. Thinks for a moment, then carefully says, "Can I do anything?"

"No. No, not really." George flicks his wand at his dinner dish, sending it to the kitchen sink, and takes the baby to their bedroom. He changes him automatically, then cradles him close and rocks him gently to sleep.

It's funny what you can get used to. A few weeks ago he'd work at the shop till he was tired enough to stumble up the stairs and fall exhausted into his bed. Now he generally gets the baby to sleep, puts him in his crib, does a few household tasks, talks to whoever's still up - Mum and Dad at The Burrow, Lee now that he's home - maybe looks over the books for the shop and then goes to bed fairly early himself, knowing he'll be woken up a couple times during the night.

He puts the baby in his crib and watches him sleep, his small chest rising and falling and his hands curled on his chest, and decides to skip the books and talking to Lee, and just go to bed himself.

He lies down.

Angelina's out. She's out, she not at the hospital any more, and she's not avoiding the wizarding world; just him. Him and their son.

He feels his throat tighten and his eyes burn and he turns over, hugging the pillow tight and tensing his entire body, refusing to give in to tears.

He hasn't let himself think of her, or of how much he wants her to come back. But he does. He needs her, their son needs her, but evidently she doesn't need them.

Fuck.

He reaches out to the crib next to his bed and puts a hand on the baby's chest, feeling its soft rise and fall, and holds himself still until the ache subsides.

Whatever was between him and Angelina was wrong and sick anyway. It would be nice for the baby to have a mother again, but maybe this is for the best.

**ooo000ooo**

Lee picks at his food and stifles a yawn. He should probably stop accepting so many out-of-town assignments, even though he loves travel and loves the exposure. Every time he suggests it, though, George gets this look on his face like he thinks Lee's only saying that because he's away far more often than he's home, and George is taking care of the baby mostly on his own these days.

George is doing well despite that, though. Of course having a load of people willing to step in at a moment's notice helps, but aside from that George looks like he's finding some peace, finally.

The last thing Lee wants is to fuck that up.

"Come on, spit it out," says George, and for a moment Lee thinks he's talking to the baby. He looks up and the baby is sitting on George's lap, busily gumming a napkin while George looks at Lee expectantly.

"What?"

"I'm the one who's supposed to brood around here, right? What's going on?"

Lee's dinner plate is suddenly incredibly interesting. He watches the pictures of the elephants on the edges of the plate as they blow bubbles and pirouette around his food and he tries to figure out how to broach the topic.

"I've been seeing Angelina," he finally says, and almost chokes as George's eyebrows go up and Lee suddenly realizes how that sounds. "Not - not like that! Just, you know, seeing, as in getting together with - but not _that_ way, just, you know, to talk-" he realizes he's babbling as soon as George starts laughing. The baby's mouth opens in a small o and he looks back and forth between them.

"D'you want to start over?" George asks, sniggering.

Lee nods vigorously. "Thanks, yeah. That... was unfortunate." He clears his throat and squares his shoulders. "Angelina asked me to meet her a little while ago. The day after I told you she was home, actually. She's." He stops. God, as many times as he's rehearsed this, it's unreal how hard it is to get the words out. "She wants to come back. And see Freddie. And you."

George's face betrays nothing. "Why hasn't she, then?" he finally asks.

"Scared."

George frowns. "Of what?"

"She feels like shit for leaving. Well... that and pretty much everything she's done, to be honest. The way she's treated you. And Freddie." George's face is very blank, and Lee pushes on. "She knows she can't make up for any of it, but she's trying to figure out what to do next that'll... I dunno, cause the least harm." He pauses. "She's not getting very far with it."

"Not staying away from her own kid might be nice, if she's trying to cause the least harm," says George evenly.

Lee nods. "I told her that. But she doesn't want... she doesn't want to hurt you again. Either one of you. I've told her you're both doing all right and she doesn't want to mess things up again."

George nods thoughtfully.

"She is doing loads better, though," says Lee, and has no idea how to express what he means. It's probably something that has to be seen to be believed. "_Loads_ better. I dunno what those Muggles did in that hospital but she... looks like Angelina again, you know?" She's upset, she feels guilty, she's nervous, but she's Angelina and looks like she can and will somehow figure out how to cope. "She'll do whatever you want to make this work, she says."

George stares at him. "What's she afraid of?"

"That you'll say she can't have Freddie back."

George rolls his eyes. "And how exactly does she think I'd manage to do that? I'm still nothing to him legally." He shifts the baby on his lap and gently takes the napkin out of his mouth. Freddie makes a small sound of protest. "Besides, I told her she had a year to come back before I petitioned for parental rights."

"That was before you'd taken care of Freddie for almost two months."

"So what?"

"Would you? Let her back into his life?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"What if she wanted to take him back? You could have your life back, your shop-"

George's lips press together and his arms tighten a bit around Freddie. Freddie makes a grab for the napkin and George lets him take it back. "I wouldn't let her cut me off from him," he says. "She tries that and I _will_ go to the Wizengamot. I should've, from the beginning."

"She won't. Trust me."

George takes the soggy part of the napkin out of Freddie's mouth and gives him a dryer piece to gum. "Hell of a time to bring this up, you know," he says quietly.

Lee grimaces. "I know. Fuck, I know. We talked about that too. Two days till the anniversary, and Bill's kid's going to be born the same day, the timing's _buggered_ in every possible way. She doesn't want to make things harder for you, but it's going to be hard on her too, and she doesn't know whether it'll be worse for you to go through it with her, or without her, and bugger it all, there was just no winning this."

George gives him a slight smile. "I can imagine."

"What do you think?"

George gazes at the baby thoughtfully, absently wiping his wet chin. "No idea."

"What if she came by tomorrow?"

George thinks for a long time, and finally nods. "All right."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Thank you thank you to **tree00faery** and **breve** for your betahood! And good luck on your exams :)

**Chapter 6**

How do you walk back into the life of your child after trying to abandon him? How do you walk back into the life of one of your closest friends after hurting him, badly, far too many times?

Angelina's shaking as she walks up to the Leaky Cauldron. She's not even sure whether she'll be able to go through with this or if she'll chicken out at the last minute.

The door opens, and her breath catches in her throat. There's George, sitting at a side table with Freddie on his lap, talking to him softly and holding a toy Puff, a cup of tea on the table a safe distance away from the baby. Freddie makes a high-pitched gleeful sound and grabs the Puff. George smiles, and Freddie smiles back at him.

Freddie has two tiny, tiny little white teeth, bottom front, and his entire face looks different. Angelina steps back and lets the Leaky's door close again. She's missed her son's first teeth. He's sitting up fairly well in George's arms, and holding his neck steady. His hair is longer, and he reached for the Puff George was holding and grasped it on the first try, and Angelina has missed so much that she'll never have back.

And now is not the time to collapse again, from guilt, or anger, or regret, or whatever. Yes, she made a mistake, and Lee was right, it's one that she will regret for the rest of her life. But she's not depressed any more, she's not being suffocated by her mother's poisonous prejudice, she does not have to let herself be helplessly carried along by her feelings or by whatever life happens to do to her.

She went down low, very low, in the hospital. But she somehow struggled back to her feet, and got well enough that the doctors gently pushed her to leave the hospital. She was able to walk out of her mother's house, able to get back in touch with her wizarding friends, and eventually even able to contact Lee. She's a strong person, and she can figure out what to do about the mess she landed them all in. She can make things better for Freddie, she can try to atone for what she's done wrong, and she can bloody well deal with George Weasley as a human being and not as a repository for all of her feelings, positive and negative, for his twin.

She braces herself and opens the door again, making herself walk steadily towards George and Freddie.

"Hello, George," she says, and George looks up.

Oh God, she's forgotten how much like Fred he is. And how heartbreaking it is that he _isn't_ Fred. And how painful it is to see that shuttered, defensive look on Fred's face, as though Fred is there, part of him anyway, disappointed in Angelina, and showing it through his twin.

And she's doing it again, damn it. Fred _isn't here_.

"Have you been waiting for long?" she asks, and it's such an inane and ridiculous thing to say.

"No, not really," says George, motioning her to the chair across from him and Freddie.

Freddie's so big. It's like he's a completely different child. She's thought about him constantly, has missed him with a physical ache, but the baby she left behind is gone forever and this one has taken his place. And yet, as the seconds slip by she can feel herself adjusting and finding her son in the contours of this child's face and in his dark eyes, and then he's hers, he's her little boy again.

George clears his throat. "D'you want to hold him?" he asks quietly, and Angelina hoped so much that she wouldn't cry but it's impossible not to. She nods, wiping her eyes, and George stands and puts Freddie in her lap, and thank God Freddie doesn't seem to mind that she's sobbing uncontrollably now. He just looks at her curiously; no memory of her at all, apparently. No recognition. Of course, how could there be?

She buries her face in his curly hair and tries to bring her sobs under control. This isn't how she wanted to do this. George waits patiently, and when she's able to control herself he hands her a handkerchief. She wipes at her face and nose and clears her throat.

"I - I'm sorry," she stammers, and everything else she'd planned on saying to elaborate what she means by that goes out the window.

George nods. "It's all right."

"Thank you," she says, and can't finish that either before her throat closes up.

He understands that too. "You're welcome," he says.

"You're so big now," she says shakily to Freddie, and Freddie pats her face curiously. He looks over at George and smiles, his tiny teeth startlingly white in his dark face.

She takes a few more minutes to settle herself, talking softly to Freddie, telling him how much she missed him. Getting to know her son again. The child whom she would have lost forever if she'd had her way and George had failed to convince the Agency to give him a chance.

When she's finally fairly sure she can speak without crying she looks back at George. "Thank you," she says again.

He nods. "So, you're back," he says.

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath. "I'm back. I, erm, I was in the hospital for a long time - three weeks, actually. Then I was an outpatient. Lived at my Mum's. Another two weeks."

George nods.

"It took a while, even after the anti-depressants started to work properly. I... it took a while to decide what to do."

"What did you decide?"

"I moved out of my mother's house, for one," Angelina says grimly.

George nods but seems to understand her desire to not visit that topic right now. Or maybe he doesn't care to know. "Where are you living now?" he asks.

It's like they're strangers. George isn't being deliberately cold but he's so incredibly guarded, and how can she possibly blame him?

"I've been staying with friends, mostly, though right now I'm house-sitting an empty place in Hogsmeade. It's temporary, though. I, erm, I'm looking for a place nearby."

George nods.

"I'm also, erm, looking for work."

He nods again, and she has no idea what he's thinking.

They've been friends since they were eleven years old. They lived together and went to class together for almost seven years. They were teammates. He's the twin brother of the love of her life, they wept together next to his body, they relied on each other through the first hellish weeks after his death, they were lovers - of a sort - for months, he helped her bring a child into the world... and she can't read a thing from him right now. It's as if they're complete strangers. And she has nobody to blame for that but herself.

Don't give in to despair, she reminds herself. The only way through this is to just get through it.

"I'm not sure what to do, though. Whether to go back to the Animal Healer's apprenticeship, or find a job here, or not get a job at all." His eyebrows go up slightly. "It all depends on you," she says carefully. "I don't know if Lee told you or not, but I really will do whatever you want. I want to be part of Freddie's life again, but." She swallows. "I've called the shots so far and it's been a disaster."

She looks down, unable to maintain eye contact, and touches Freddie's hair again. There's a long silence, broken only by Freddie's soft coos.

George clears his throat. "To be honest I don't know what I want right now either."

Angelina looks up. He's looking out the window, absently stirring his tea.

"Looks like we've got a lot to talk about, don't we?" says George quietly.

**ooo000ooo**

He's still not got a clue what he wants, George realizes that night as he sits on his bed, the baby cradled in the crook of his left arm and taking his bedtime bottle.

It's not that he necessarily wants to keep doing this baby care thing full time. In fact, he doesn't. His life right now is endlessly frustrating and often thankless; there's no admiring customers laughing at his jokes or products, nobody even around to talk to a lot of the time - at least, nobody who can talk back. Changing nappies gets very old very fast, and there are really only so many times anyone can sing Babbity Rabbity Baby Bat before starting to pray for his own death.

But he's become used to having the baby in his life. Having a constant companion again.

There's no comparing a small, helpless, often cranky, wet and messy baby with the brother and best friend who filled George's world with laughter and fun and adventure. He hates the baby's name because he's _not Fred_, damn it, and no amount of wishing will make him Fred. But it still feels good, having someone in his life who's always there. Never being alone for more than a couple of hours at a time.

The baby's swallows are changing from frequent deep gulps to small, slow ones, and he shifts slightly in George's arms. His eyes blink open and he gazes at George for a moment before closing them again with a contented sigh. He'll probably feed a little more and then pop the bottle out of his mouth and turn his face towards George. George waits a few minutes, until the swallows are infrequent, before removing the bottle and sitting up, shifting the baby onto the shoulder that has the spit-up blanket over it. The baby gives an annoyed grunt but George pats his small back firmly until he hears a few burps and feels his belly settle. He's tried to explain it to Lee a few times, but it seems it's something you can really only learn to read through doing it a few dozen times yourself.

He shifts the baby back down and gives him back the bottle. He sits back against the headboard again and reflects that it's a good thing the baby's cute, because his arm is starting to get tired and this routine of feeding and burping and sitting around with a moist blanket on his shoulder is not exactly the lifestyle he ever imagined he'd be living at this point in his life.

It feels good to be needed, to be vitally important to somebody. But when he thinks about the intense devotion that his parents feel for him and his siblings, he's fairly sure he doesn't feel that towards the baby. Because despite everything, right now having Angelina walk back into their life feels a bit like freedom: freedom to have his own life back - what's left of it, anyway - to be free of constant demands and drudgery such as what he's doing right now.

But it also means letting go of the baby, at least a bit, and George really doesn't know how he feels about that. The baby's snuggling into the crook of his arm and barely moving his jaw as he drinks, one small hand resting warmly on George's hand over the bottle, eyes closed, trusting in George to keep him safe and happy and it all feels so different from anything George has ever felt before. When the baby reaches out for him, smiles at his presence, clings to him - when George is holding him close, nuzzling his cheek, soothing him, making him smile, it feels somehow more rewarding than just about anything else in his life right now. The closest he's ever felt to this possessive protectiveness is what he felt for Ron and Ginny when they were smaller. They were pests, sure, but they were his and Fred's pests. Much as they teased Ron and Ginny, pranked them, and avoided them when they were too little to be much fun, the panic and worried helplessness they felt when Ginny or Ron were hurt or in danger - from possessed diaries, poison mead, or Death Eaters within and without Hogwarts - were agonizing. _Their_ little brother and sister, threatened by something more serious than older brothers' pranks, felt like an attack on him and Fred.

Regardless of who sired him, the tiny being now lying warm and peaceful in George's arms is _his_. More so than Ron and Ginny ever were. The connection George feels towards him, which started in confusion and guilt and panic and maybe even a little anti-Muggle prejudice, has become much more. He doesn't want Angelina to take that away or even lessen it.

The anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts is two days from now. Almost a year since he lost the most important person in his life. He doesn't want to lose anyone, ever again.

... and all this musing is really pretty pointless. He's not going to figure this out watching the baby's eyelids flicker as he dreams. He carefully gets up and puts the baby in his crib. The baby stirs, his small eyebrows drawing together, and George rubs a soothing hand along his back until he's still and relaxed again.

He lies down and wishes with all his heart that Fred was here to talk to, to help George untangle in even a small way all the conflicting ideas and emotions churning around. Or, more likely, rattle off a series of tasteless jokes about both situations and laugh him into a solution, or at least into temporary mental peace. Problem is, he can't even imagine what Fred would say about any of this.

He tries to imagine Fred joking about him and Angelina getting themselves into this mess, and all he gets is an image of the expression Fred wore when he thought of Percy during his estrangement from the family - but this time directed at _George_.

George shudders.

Something about the baby, then; maybe about the indignity of having been replaced as George's constant companion by a person who drools.

... yeah, nothing there either. George decides to go to sleep instead.

That night, he dreams of Angelina. He wakes up with a groan on his lips and his sheets damp with sweat, an inch away from coming. For a moment he's completely disoriented - Angelina was just there, she was holding him close and tightening around him, lip caught between her teeth as she ground herself against him - and then he's alone in the bed and panting and hard and he automatically checks on the baby, sleeping peacefully in his crib next to the bed.

He slips one hand under the covers and bites down hard on the other, stifling himself as he strokes hard and fast. This is nothing to savor, nothing to draw out - just scratch the itch and get it over with. He shudders, spilling himself onto his stomach, gasping for breath, shaking, feeling the ache subside.

Oh fuck no shit bugger what the hell was that?

He's supposed to be _done_ with this. He and Angelina haven't slept together since before Christmas. Besides, one of the few advantages to being tired from continuous baby care is a complete lack of libido. He doesn't want to be visited by Angelina in his dreams. He's not supposed to want her, should never have had her in the first place - but there she is again.

He mutters a cleaning spell, slips out of bed and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. Lee's at the table, going over what looks like interview notes.

"You all right?" asks Lee.

"Yeah," he says, pouring himself a glass.

"The baby?"

"Fine, sleeping."

"Thought you'd be asleep too," says Lee, glancing at the clock.

"I was." He takes a swallow of cool water.

"What happened?"

"Bad dream."

Wrong thing to say, as Lee quickly looks up worriedly. They've both had their share of bad dreams this year. Lee studies him for a moment and then a small smile quirks the side of his mouth. "That's not a _bad_ dream blush on your face, mate," he says, amused. "Don't try to lie to a bloke who slept in the same room as you and Fred for seven years."

George drains the glass and turns to go back to bed.

"George?" Lee says uncertainly.

George doesn't turn around. "It was about Angelina," he says curtly.

"Fuck," he hears Lee mutter as the door closes behind him.

**ooo000ooo**

The Minister has declared today a day of mourning. Only St. Mungo's and a few other emergency services are open; most shops and Ministry offices are closed. Hogwarts has been opened to the public for the day. George and Angelina bring Freddie to the memorial service, which takes place in the same place Dumbledore's funeral was held.

The service is simple. There are no long flowery speeches about bravery or sacrifice or shining new futures, no euphemisms. Kingsley speaks briefly of remembering those who suffered and died resisting Voldemort's second rising. Then the names of all those who died at Hogwarts are read out in chronological order, starting with Cedric Diggory and Albus Dumbledore and ending with Colin Creevey, though of course it's hard to tell who died when during the final battle. Angelina figures Colin was probably chosen to be named last because of his age, or because he was Muggle-born, or both. There's been a fair bit of symbolism going on lately in the wizarding world.

In the weeks leading up to the memorial, every person who was part of the resistance was sent a Phoenix pin whether they were in the Order or not, and everyone who was at the final battle received a Hogwarts castle pin. Apparently it was all done through the Goblet of Fire, to prevent unscrupulous people claiming war hero status falsely, though Angelina has no idea how they spelled the Goblet to accomplish that. Angelina and George are both wearing their pins tucked into their clothing, as are all of the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Lee. As far as Angelina knows, none of them discussed doing so beforehand.

Near the Forbidden Forest there is now a memorial wall, far too long, adorned with still Muggle photographs of those who died here, each photograph accompanied by a name and two dates. Angelina's suddenly reminded of a hidden niche Fred and George had at Wheezes, filled with candles representing those who were dead or missing or in danger because of the war. She doubts the Death Eaters found it when they broke in, and wonders what George did with it.

Angelina and George slowly walk the length of the wall, among the other people at the service. They finally stop at Fred's photograph. Fred's smiling, wearing a WWW robe, and looking off to the side - most probably at George.

"That's Fred. That's who you were named for," says George softly to Freddie, whose eyebrows draw together in puzzlement. He looks from the picture to George and back, his dark eyes wide and his mouth in a small o.

"Yeah, I do look like him," says George, chuckling. "That's not me, though."

Freddie looks from the picture to George again, and then bursts out laughing, and Angelina's breath stops in her throat. She's never heard him laugh before.

He sounds like Fred.

Not really, of course - not at all, actually, the pitch is all wrong, but there's somehow something very Fred-like about his laughter. He keeps looking from the picture to George, and who knows why, but he seems to find it hilarious.

George has gone a little pale. "What is it?" Angelina asks.

George shakes his head. "Never heard him laugh before. He's a serious little kid." George's voice is strained, and Angelina's throat is tight too, and it's such a bizarre reaction to their child's laughter.

Angelina swallows and tightens her hold on Freddie, and George steps closer. Freddie turns and holds his arms out to George, having become used to being passed from person to person, but George puts an arm around both of them instead.

They're standing as if they're a family, Angelina suddenly realizes as she leans back against George, gazing at Fred's photograph. It feels oddly natural. As if they're just a couple showing their son his uncle and namesake, and if he were older they'd probably be telling him stories.

And if that was really the way things were, they'd be telling each other stories of Fred right now. They haven't, not for a long time.

"You know, I wish I could still talk to you about Fred," Angelina says hesitantly.

George tenses up slightly, but says only, "Why can't you?"

Now she's uncomfortable.

"Because we were sleeping together?" he says quietly, and doesn't need to add _and you were pretending I was him?_

They're silent for a long time. "Talk about him all you like," he says softly. "I miss him too."

Angelina nods, then blinks as a bright light goes off in her eyes. A Prophet photographer nods at them and moves down the line to take pictures of other mourners.

Lee joins them. Others have already been here; there are a few letters and cards left propped up under Fred's picture, and someone, probably Ginny, left a sunflower. "He would've hated to have people crying over him," Lee comments, chuckling a bit as he wipes his eyes. "Can you picture him if he saw us right now? He'd take the mickey out of all of us."

George smiles. "Nah, he always knew you were a huge girl's blouse."

Freddie squeals and reaches out for Lee's dreadlocks. Lee smiles and leans closer and Freddie makes a happy cooing sound as he pulls on Lee's hair. Then there's a bit of a commotion over at the small plaque near where Hagrid's hut used to be, and they all turn to take a look. Fleur is visibly glowing - silvery light pulsing around her and everything, which is a bit scary - and Bill looks somewhat stunned.

"Is it time?" asks George's mum.

Fleur gives Bill a brilliant smile and Bill gulps, nodding.

"All right then, you lot, let's get going," says Mrs. Weasley, and the great mass of Weasleys moves towards Fleur and Bill. Fleur's smile dims a bit, and then she glances back at Bill and seems to dismiss everything else from her mind. She reaches out to take his hand, beaming at him and they move towards the castle; Apparition and Floo travel aren't terribly advisable for women about to go into labour, and Fleur and Bill had alerted McGonagall that Fleur would in all likelihood go into labour right here. It seems fitting, somehow, that one year after losing one member of the family at this castle, another should be born in the very same place.

Fleur is smiling at Bill and she's never looked more beautiful. It's not just a Veela thing, Angelina realizes: this is what it's like when you know you're about to give birth to your child with its father by your side - its father whom you adore, and want to spend your life with. Angelina's a bit dismayed at the longing and bitterness in her thoughts.

She pushes those thoughts away and turns to George. "Do you want to take Freddie, or do you want me to keep him out here?"

George shakes his head. "No, you bring him in."

Angelina shakes her head. "No, I can't, I'm not really part of..."

George shrugs. "You don't have to if you don't want to. But he should meet his cousin and you were planning on spending the day with him."

Angelina nods, feeling horribly uncertain, but follows George. It's not all Weasleys, as Harry, Hermione and Lee are also in the group, but she still feels completely out of place. She sees the Prophet reporter snap a few pictures of the group heading inside, and asking questions of the other attendees, his QuickQuill scribbling furiously.

They pass through the Great Hall. One year ago today, Fred lay among fifty other dead in the Great Hall - Colin, Remus Lupin and his wife, Professor Flitwick, so many others. Angelina heard that Madam Pomfrey never recovered from seeing so many of her friends and students wounded and dead, and left her post as soon as a replacement could be found.

Angelina can almost see herself, Fred's family, and Lee, gathered right here, around Fred's body. If she closes her eyes she can see George's gaze meeting hers from across the Great Hall, see him motioning to her to join the family in mourning, feel his arms going around her, his body shaking with sorrow, both of them trying to anchor each other through the worst thing that could've happened to either of them. His pain must have been so much more intense than hers, yet he had thought of her and reached out to her despite it.

She didn't repay him very well. She chances a glance at him. He's very pale, determinedly not looking at the place where he and Percy brought Fred's body as they cross the Great Hall.

They arrive at the hospital wing and Fleur is whisked away by Madam Pomfrey's replacement, Bill by her side. The family gathers together in a waiting area, along with Fleur's parents and a couple of her Veela cousins. The two stunning women approach George and Angelina and coo over Freddie, and one of them gives Angelina a speculative look before leaning closer to George, talking softly to him in accented English. Angelina feels a completely inexplicable stab of jealousy as he laughs at something she says, and she wonders if these women are the Veela cousins Fred once mentioned meeting at Bill's wedding. She glances over at Ginny and Hermione and sees them standing amusingly close to Harry and Ron respectively, sort of blocking them from the Veela. She has a completely irrational urge to do the same to George, but it doesn't look like he's more than politely interested in either of the gorgeous women. One of them even leans close to him and puts a hand on his arm and he doesn't really react much, other than to nod at whatever she's saying.

"Dear," says George's mum, right next to her, and Angelina barely suppresses a startled squeak and feels completely intimidated. Molly Weasley could be terrifying even before she killed Bellatrix Lestrange, and considering how Angelina's own mum treated George, with far less cause...

Mrs. Weasley gives her a warm hug instead, leaving her speechless. "Thank you for coming back, dear," she says. "Freddie needed his mum." She steps back slightly and studies Angelina for a moment. "You look so much better. How are you feeling?"

Angelina's suddenly reminded why, despite all the disagreements between Fred and George and their mother, despite all the pressure she put on them to be who she wanted them to be instead of who they were, they loved her so much. Why they wore her awful jumpers with pride. Why they got themselves banned from Quidditch when that little Malfoy snot insulted her.

"I - I'm all right," she says, steadying her voice as much as she can. "And I'm glad George... I mean, I'm so grateful to him, for... for everything."

Mrs. Weasley smiles. "I think it was good for him, having Freddie these months. Not that it was easy, but he did well. I'm so proud of him." She nods firmly. "And you two will work things out. You've both got Freddie's best interests at heart."

It's disorienting. After what she did, she expected so much more hostility. The Weasleys are nothing if not strong-willed and opinionated, and she had braced herself for scorn at least, if not outright hatred. But except for Percy, who's fairly guarded by nature, and Ginny, who is frankly cold towards her, they all seem to be making an effort to include her in the family.

It's obvious Freddie has been well-cared for in Angelina's absence. He smiles at every family member who picks him up, though he looks a little suspicious of Fleur's family. And all the Weasleys are comfortable with him, all seem to know what they're doing - from Charlie, who sings him a rather questionable song about a dragon, a banshee and a Red Cap, to Ginny, who feeds and then burps him with practiced ease. Angelina frowns briefly. Aren't she and Hermione in school, still? How did they get so familiar with baby care?

With stunning speed, Fleur's labour is done and Bill comes out, looking gobsmacked but happy. Apparently Fleur has agreed to allow everyone to see the new baby. As they all troop in, Angelina can't help but feel jealous. She pushed for hours and hours, and probably looked an absolute fright by the time Freddie finally appeared. Fleur looks like she's undergone some strenuous activity - and after months of living in the Muggle world Angelina's first thought is that she looks like one of these skinny bints on aerobics shows on the telly - but she's still _glowing_. And nestled in her arms is a perfect, dainty little blond princess.

"That's your cousin Victoire," says George to Freddie. Freddie takes one look at the baby and starts to laugh again, and after a startled moment, the rest of the family laughs too. His laughter is infectious.

Too soon, it's time to go. Fleur gives Bill a meaningful look and a nod, and Bill immediately starts to herd everyone out.

It's been a hell of a day; Freddie laughed today for the first time ever - twice, and Victoire Weasley was born, three floors away from where her uncle died exactly one year ago today.

"All right, then," Angelina says, and approaches George. "I suppose it's time to go." She holds out her arms for Freddie and George blinks, then swallows hard and nods and hands him over.

Angelina takes Freddie into her arms and then pauses. She's been looking forward to having him back with her for days, has set up a crib and other baby necessities in her Hogsmeade house and pictured Freddie in there and ached to have him close again... but suddenly the idea of taking him from George today, of all days, sounds insane.

"Actually, why don't I come for him tomorrow instead?" she says.

George blinks. "What? No, it's all right, you can - we agreed-"

Angelina shakes her head, transferring him back to George. "No, we weren't thinking. It's the anniversary of the Battle, and your brother's a new dad. Freddie should be with you tonight. I'll take him tomorrow."

The gratitude and relief in George's eyes is more than she can face, and she kisses the top of Freddie's head. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She leaves before she has a chance to change her mind.

**ooo000ooo**

A few days later, George and Angelina have tentatively worked things out. George is going back to work part-time. Angelina's going to find a place close to his flat and try to get part-time work involving animals in order to try for another apprenticeship closer to home. They're both going to take Freddie for a part of every day, and he'll spend alternate weeks sleeping at George's and Angelina's flats, once she has a decent place to live. It's all a little vague, but it helps to know that George will be able to adapt his schedule to whatever works, and that he has the means to help her out for the first little while as she's getting herself sorted out.

She's not going to do anything to jeopardize that.

They spend a bit of time together and he's polite but reserved. Although the distance between them is intensely painful, she understands that it has to be this way.

She's getting tired of living at friends' houses, and when the new flat on Diagon comes up it's like a dream come true. It's less than a ten minute walk from George's place. The problem is, it's not available right away. And she's got nowhere to go for the two weeks that she has to wait.

She can stay at his place, says George. She can take his room and he'll be at The Burrow. He doesn't look at her when he proposes it.

It would make far more sense for her to stay at George's place with him, sleeping in Lee's room, as Lee is currently on assignment in Thailand and expects to be there for at least three more weeks. That's not what George has suggested, though, and so Angelina doesn't suggest it either.

**ooo000ooo**

George gazes at the new small portrait on his wall. It's one of two that Angelina had made using the photograph which appeared in The Prophet a few weeks ago, of the three - well, four - of them at the memorial. George has his arm around her, they're both gazing at Fred's picture, and the baby is giggling, looking from Fred's picture to George and back. He can't help thinking how much they look like a normal family. And also how disturbing it is to realize that he doesn't have any pictures of the baby. Mum and Dad do, but for some reason it's never occurred to George to take some pictures himself. He makes a mental note to ask Mum for some next time he's at The Burrow.

"Thank you," Angelina says softly, glancing down at the baby, lying in her arms. She's just nursed him down to sleep - first time she's been able to do that, as the spells to bring back a mother's milk take a while to work properly.

"For what?"

"For taking care of him when I couldn't. For not giving up on him." She pauses. "Or me."

George gazes at the baby sleeping at her breast, his small jaw occasionally still making nursing motions in his sleep and he doesn't really know what to say, but happily Lee is there and answers for him. "You know he would've done a lot more to help if you'd asked earlier," Lee says, and his voice is remarkably blame-free, considering what he thought of Angelina going to the Magical Child Agency at the time. "Bloody hell, _I_ would've done a lot more. You just had to ask."

"I know that now." Angelina shakes her head. "And I can't... to be honest, I can't really understand why I couldn't see that at the time either. It just... everything had narrowed down to no options. And Mum kept telling me not to be selfish; not to deprive Freddie of a stable home." She meets George's gaze. "It honestly didn't occur to me that you could help, and even after you said you could, it felt like that wasn't a viable choice." She pauses. "I'm glad it did to you."

"Your mother... she's..." Lee trails off.

George can't help thinking of her words when he and Ginny went to get the baby. "She was just trying to protect Angelina," he says, and Lee gapes at him in disbelief. Lee can't understand, George realizes. Not until he has a child of his own.

Before Lee can say anything the Floo flares up and a witch's head appears in the fire. "Jordan! They're back!"

Lee blinks, then sits up. "You mean-"

"Get your arse back here," the witch says, and disappears.

"Death Eater trial verdicts," Lee says. "Damn." He glances from Angelina to George, then at the clock, clearly torn.

"Go on," says George.

"I-"

"Go do your bloody job, Jordan. I don't slave away at the shop day after day for you to sponge off me on rent."

Lee grins. "Fair enough," he says, pulls on his cloak and goes to the Floo.

"Was your mum right then, about the Muggle hospital?" George asks after Lee has gone.

"Yeah," Angelina nods. "I didn't think so, at the time. I mean, I knew things were bad and I wasn't coping well, but it all felt like there was no way through it so I didn't really see much point in going into a hospital. Especially since wizarding hospitals... well for mental things you don't go to St. Mungo's to get better, do you? You go there to live out your life where you won't hurt yourself or anybody else. It's one place where Muggles are far ahead of us."

George nods thoughtfully. "How was it? At the hospital?"

"Bad," says Angelina. She hesitates for another moment and looks down at the baby. "It got so bad... I wanted to die."

George looks up at her sharply. "Really?"

"Suicide watch and everything. It's so strange to think of that now," she muses. "Not... not that everything is wonderful now. I still... you know, I wonder what I've done with my life, and I still worry about Freddie, and being able to be a good mother to him, and I still... still miss Fred." She says his name carefully, like she's not sure she's allowed. "But feeling the way I did in the hospital... I don't. Not any more. It's scary to know how much I wanted to die, though. How close I came."

She looks at him hesitantly, and he knows what she wants to ask before she asks it. "You never did?" she says quietly. "Think of ending it?"

He looks away from her. "I can't... to be honest I'm not sure." She makes an inquiring noise. "Mostly didn't dare to let myself think about it," he says slowly. "Too much of a coward." Whenever his thoughts veered in that direction he just distracted himself, drank, tested out some products, just refused to go there. "Although... I think I did, once. But I wasn't really... I don't remember too much about it."

"Were you drunk?"

"No, I was working in the lab and I got an accidental dose of a potion I was working on. I... it kind of stopped higher brain function. Ron and Percy had a time dealing with me; probably would've destroyed the entire lab if they hadn't been there." He doesn't remember a lot of it, but remembers wanting to join Fred, wherever he was, and remembers quite a lot of fury and sobbing and clinging to Ron and waking up the next day with Ron and Percy looking pale and looking everywhere but at him. He doesn't know what, as a four-year-old, he was able to articulate, other than pain and loneliness and a need to just stop hurting, no matter what it took. "I'm not sure, though. I don't remember it clearly enough, and I didn't want to ask Ron or Percy what I said."

Angelina sighs. "Well, you're braver than I am."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Don't think so. Just stubborn."

"You were dealing with so much more than I was."

"I didn't have pregnancy hormones, or a mum who was making things more difficult," he points out.

She shakes her head and he can tell she's near tears. He hesitates briefly, then draws nearer and puts an arm around her, and she leans her head against his shoulder with a sigh. He hopes it's comforting to her and supposes it should be comforting to him too, but it's really not. Not when he wants, so much, to find comfort in her the way he used to. Which is not really an option.

The baby's fully asleep now, and George helps Angelina bundle him up and get ready to take him back to her own flat. He offers to walk her, but it's not far away and she's a little reticent and it's probably best to back off. This delicate balance they've got going is so difficult some days.

The flat feels echoingly empty once they're gone. They're just down the street, and he'll see the baby again tomorrow, but even though he's done this a few times now and is genuinely appreciative of the chance to sleep through the night once more, it's still wrenching. He can't fathom how Angelina dealt with saying goodbye to their child for what she thought would be forever.

Maybe there's something to this Muggle business with counseling and talking things out. Obviously it helped Angelina. There's so much he can't talk about to anyone, not even Lee. He'd talk to Angelina, but of course she's at the centre of a lot of it, and... and he doesn't just want to talk with her.

He's still not sure why he wants so much more from her than he should, now, after so many years of being her friend without feeling the slightest attraction to her. Was it because they needed each other so much after Fred died? Because she was a link to Fred? Or just because she's the only person he's ever had sex with? He's heard that runespoors apparently attach themselves to the first person who feeds them, and stay with that person for life. He can only hope like hell it's not the same with sex, for him.

Maybe it's because she's the only one who can give him a break from being a singleton, because he can be Fred around her, as he can't with anyone else. He very much hopes that's not it, because he's _not_ Fred. His life as a twin is over.

He'd really hoped that dream about her the day he first saw her again was a fluke. No such luck. They're not spending a lot of time together; just passing the kid back and forth, occasionally having a meal together. But that's partly due to the fact that ever since she came back, looking like herself again, looking like the girl who was in the DA with them, the girl who Captained a Quidditch team with three new players - one of them an abysmal Keeper - into winning the Quidditch Cup, ever since they started sharing the baby and falling into a 'couple' situation all the time... he wants her. Badly.

For months now, she's been the only woman he's thought of, when he's thought of women at all. There's a bird at Flourish and Blott's that's not bad-looking, and he's made himself fantasize about her a few times while wanking, but the woman he thinks of without meaning to, the woman he dreams of, is always Angelina. Even the Veela cousins from Bill's wedding - Claudine, who went with Fred into a darkened room, and Collette, who went with George - had no effect on him whatsoever when they met at Victoire's birth.

It's ridiculous. Angelina's a good-looking girl, yes, but she's treated him like shit. And she's severely messed up, not that he has any right to cast aspersions on anybody else's mental health.

He's angry at Fred fairly often now. Fred asked him to take care of the girl he loved, and then fucking well buggered off. Fred didn't bother to think that maybe it would be difficult for George to do that. That maybe it might be tough to get over his own twin's death, and that maybe asking George to do anything other than not slit his own wrists might be a little unfair. Because the girl Fred asked him to take care of became a serious mental case, and so did George, and they fed off each other, and they're still doing it. He still wants her, every time he's with her he wants her, and it's ridiculous and pathetic and sometimes he wishes Fred were back just so he could hex him.

"Someday you'll fall in love and I'll take the mickey out of you," Fred said to him once. Well, he hasn't fallen in love by any stretch of the imagination, but if Fred were here he'd be taking the mickey out of him for sure.

He turns over in bed, uncomfortably aware of the erection pressing into the bed under him. He tries to ignore it and hope it'll just go away for a few minutes before giving up.

He turns onto his back, reaching down, closing his eyes. He's too bloody tired to try to come up with a suitable fantasy about a suitable girl - that new receptionist at the Apothecary's, or Collette the Veela, or the tall Asian witch with the very red lipstick who came in this morning to buy Bursting Bustier Burritos. He just thinks of Angelina instead. Thinks of her fingers caressing his skin, her lips touching his. He pictures her hand where his is right now, imagines her tongue and teeth exploring the side of his neck, her legs wrapping around him...

The images build quickly, rushing at him now that he's not actively trying to keep them at bay. He doesn't have to be quiet, there's nobody home. He's panting now, straining to come, to images of Angelina's neck arching back, to sounds of her sighing, gasping, crying out, the feel of her gripping him tightly, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair, smooth dark silkiness of her skin under his, her breasts rounded and soft and-

He gasps, back arching off the bed as he finally empties himself with a groan.

Tears shouldn't be seeping from under his eyelids, he thinks vaguely. Not right after coming. But the second the rush of orgasm is over this all feels so fucking lonely, so fucking empty, and not just due to the absence of a woman in his bed. _Totally_ empty. No twin, no best mate, no baby, no girl, just _him_, and he's just not enough.

"Mate, if you're crying after wanking, you've done something seriously wrong," he can almost hear Fred saying, and he laughs, a bit breathlessly, through his tears, but even that doesn't cheer him up because he hasn't actually done anything seriously wrong - not wrong enough to merit this kind of misery, anyway - and yet here he is.

He buries his face in his pillow and just lets the sorrow wash over and take him. What the hell, it's not as though there's anybody around to care whether he gives in to it or not.

The tears run out eventually and now he's just knackered and feeling about as low as he can. This is exactly the kind of state he works bloody hard to avoid, because willpower can only do so much to keep him from going down the path Angelina was talking about just a little while ago and wondering how bad would it be, really, if he just checked out. And wouldn't it be nice to not feel like half a person any more, not feel like there's no point to anything, not feel like the best part of him has already been rotting in a grave for over a year, and he might as well let the rest of him join in the fun of just _not dealing_ with this shit any more...

He rubs his face across his pillow, sits up, mutters a cleaning spell, and hauls himself upright, his breath still coming in shuddering gasps. There's Firewhiskey in the kitchen and it's a perfect night to indulge. And by 'indulge' he means get so fucking drunk he can't remember his own name, hopefully pass out and have absolutely no memory of any of this tomorrow.

He's downing his third shot when Lee comes home. Lee stops short at the kitchen door, his eyes going wide. "Merlin. Are you all right?"

George turns away. "Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse. He rubs a hand across his face. Must look like absolute shit.

"I - I'm sorry," Lee begins, "the story ran late-"

"Yeah, no worries," George manages to say. "Thought you'd be out all night."

"George." Lee comes closer and takes the glass out of his hand. "What the hell happened? Did... you didn't-"

George suddenly gets what Lee doesn't want to ask and laughs, startling Lee. "Oh fuck, no, Merlin, no we didn't do anything. I was a perfect gentleman. Aren't you proud of me?" Lee frowns and George realizes he's probably slurring. "Helped her get the baby settled, offered to walk her home, that's it, that's all." He takes his glass back. "What happened at the trials?"

Lee blinks. "All guilty as charged except for Lucius bloody Malfoy, don't know what else, don't care. Left MacIntosh to finish the coverage."

"Why?"

"I was worried about you," Lee says bluntly. "Told myself I was an idiot and you're doing perfectly fine but I couldn't concentrate." He narrows his eyes. "Not such an idiot after all."

George blows out his breath. "Right, then, if you're gonna insist on playing babysitter for me, let's go out."

Lee frowns. "Out? Out where?"

"Dunno. Get drunk. Maybe pull some bird or something. Whatever it is single blokes do around here."

"Think you've had enough to drink already," Lee begins, then stops and shakes his head. "Right. No. Never mind, let's go." Lee pulls his cloak back on and they head out.

**ooo000ooo**

Angelina's laughing at something Fred's saying, although for a moment he looks serious. He's normally so full of joy and laughter. And he wants her, she can tell - she's come to his aunt's house and Auntie's a little scandalized but the rest of the Weasleys are ridiculously happy to see somebody, after weeks cooped up on their own. Fred grins at her and gives her a tour of the mansion, which doesn't seem so big once Angelina understands that part of it has been transformed into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

She's so glad to be with him, and he pulls her into an empty room and any doubts she had about whether he wants her or not are erased when he pulls her close as soon as the door shuts behind them, letting her feel how he's fully hard before they've even touched each other. They're grabbing as much time and passion as they can, laughter punctuating their heated snogging and groping, but something tells her there's something amiss - more so than just the fact that they're both pretty much under a death sentence if the Death Eaters find them - and she pulls back to see what's wrong, why he's stopped kissing her and then she sees the place where his ear ought to be-

She wakes up gasping.

She covers her face as reality crashes upon her again. Bloody Fred-dreams. Whatever happens during the dreams, it's always such a relief to realize that he's alive after all, and this has all just been a terrible nightmare. Which makes waking devastating, every time.

George had quite a few Fred-dreams, those first weeks after the Battle. They talked about them back then, but never became close enough to discuss dreams again, after that first time they slept together. She wonders if this still happens to George. How he deals with it, if it does.

She rubs the sleep from her eyes, profoundly disquieted by the remnants of the dream, and the remnants of arousal. Her skin feels ultra-sensitive, her nerves stretched tight, her stomach fluttering, and she glances around Lee's room, still slightly disoriented. She was nursing Freddie here, she remembers now. He had just fallen asleep, and she thought she'd just rest her eyes for a few moments. George probably took him from her and put him in his crib. George is probably in the kitchen right now, working on something. Nice of him to let her rest; Freddie was up all bloody night last night, and Angelina's knackered.

She lies back, her body still humming a bit from the dream. It was so vivid, until the end, and she closes her eyes, remembering Aunt Muriel's. So joyful, Fred was, despite the wariness and weariness the war had made permanent features of all of them. Despite fear and anger and helplessness, he was so full of life.

George used to be so much like him. She could hardly ever tell them apart when she first met them. It took a few years to notice that Fred tended to talk more, joke more, hurt people more. It's not so difficult to distinguish between them now, and not just because of the blindingly obvious. George is really not much like Fred, not any more. She wonders whether he realizes that; and if so, what he thinks of it.

She hears a soft sound from the living room, and gets up and peeks out.

George is walking Freddie, patting his back gently, and Freddie's fussing a bit but mostly seems to just be awake and not terribly concerned with the lateness of the hour. George is singing to him softly, a song Angelina thinks she's heard before but not sung the way George is singing it.

She frowns. The song sounds really familiar. Something Lee played once; a Muggle song, but not a lullaby... she leans out Lee's door a bit, straining to hear...

_Baby poo, baby poo, all I talk about is baby poo_

Angelina barely stifles a giggle and George sees her and grins. He puts a finger to his lips and Angelina nods, noiselessly moving into the kitchen so Freddie won't see her and wake up all over again. She gets herself a tea while George continues to walk Freddie. Decides to make George a cup too.

She's still feeling a bit uneasy and on edge from her dream. Thinking and feeling all sorts of things about Fred - and George - that she probably shouldn't. She leans against the magenta kitchen counter and sips her tea, remembering her first time with Fred. He was so eager, so full of wonder. It's etched into her memory: the way he'd cried out in delight, the way he moaned, the way he smiled at her, almost shyly, as they did things together he'd never done before...

The contrast between Fred's first time and George's is heartbreaking, so she prefers to not think about it. Besides, thinking about George that way... yeah, not a good idea. Whatever feelings she may still have towards him. Whatever feelings he may have towards her, whatever attraction she thinks she senses in him sometimes.

Sex with Fred was exciting and thrilling. Sex with George was complex and desperate and an utter mindfuck, for both of them. It felt like disloyalty to Fred, in a weird and probably very twisted way, to think of George while she was having sex with him. Like if she was thinking of George, instead of imagining him as Fred, that invalidated what she had felt for Fred. Which... if that wasn't insane, she didn't know what was. Treating a living friend and lover like shit, out of misplaced loyalty to a dead man who would've been horrified by what she was doing.

Freddie's fussing sounds have stopped and George stops singing, and then, after a few minutes, takes Freddie back to his room. He comes back fairly quickly; Freddie must have been tired.

"He didn't want to nurse?" she asks him, forcing down her discomfort.

"No, just a little fussy."

"You know, he doesn't need encouragement," she says, handing George his cup.

"For what?" he asks, leaning against the counter - which looks rather suspiciously spotless right now; she suspects Mrs. Weasley's been - and taking a sip of his tea.

"To make more baby poo."

George sniggers. "Beats singing Babbity Rabbity and Gertrude the Grouchy Griffin for the five millionth time."

"Did Lee give you the idea?"

"Mum, actually. Said Dad used to sing Muggle songs to me and Fred. Which probably explains a great deal."

"Probably," Angelina laughs.

"Speaking of Mum, you know we noticed he's looking at us a lot when we're eating? She says that means he should start getting solids. Came over today and made him about a cellar full of applesauce."

"Applesauce?"

"Mum says it's what she started all of us on."

"So that's what the smell is. I thought you were brewing something."

"Here? With a baby in the flat? Mum would kill me. No, it's baby food. All day she spent here making it. Made carrots and peaches too. Cast a spell on them so they won't rot any time soon."

"I think you're supposed to start them on cereals, though. At least I think that's what my mum said..." Angelina trails off. She hasn't seen Mum since she moved out. George gives her a sympathetic look.

"I wish... at first she was so good with him," she says. "And I know she loved him too, only... I keep wondering if I'm being unreasonable, cutting off all contact. Keep thinking I'd like him to grow up knowing her, but after what happened, I don't know if I can."

George nods and takes a sip of his tea. "Maybe someday you will," he says.

"You never know what might happen in the future, though. What if she died and I had to live with having kept him from getting to know her?" She sighs. "Bad enough he'll never get to meet Fred."

"Bad enough Fred'll never get to meet him," says George.

Angelina nods. "Sometimes I feel like telling Fred how he's doing - holding his head up, starting to sit up - but I can never decide whether it helps or it doesn't. Sometimes I still feel so close to him, somehow..."

"I don't," says George. "He feels farther away every day to me."

Angelina's eyes fill with tears at the subdued tone of his voice, unfortunately at the exact moment that George happens to glance up. He drops his gaze and presses his lips together, irate at himself.

"Bugger. I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't... bloody hell that came out a lot more maudlin than I meant. Just - forget I said that, right?"

Angelina can't speak past the lump in her throat, but draws nearer to him and puts an arm around him, laying her head on his shoulder. "No, I won't. And don't apologize; I was sounding pretty bloody maudlin myself," she points out.

"Yeah, no, it's just... bloody hell, Fred would've laughed at us. I think." He pauses. "Actually I don't have a clue whether he would have or not."

Angelina bites her lip, knowing how hard it is for him to admit that. Once he and Fred were like one person. Now...

"I'm sorry," she says.

He shrugs. She lifts her head from his shoulder and opens her mouth to say something, and his gaze drop down to her lips and then their eyes meet again. She holds her breath as he gently tugs her closer to him, and they both gaze at each other uncertainly for a moment before he bridges the distance from his lips to hers.

She's trembling, afraid to break the moment, still feeling off-balance from her dream, and she doesn't know what's going on inside him, doesn't know why he's kissing her now but hopes he doesn't stop any time soon. It's a sweeter kiss than they've ever shared before, lovely and warm and soft, and she wants so much to pull him closer that she's feeling a bit dizzy.

She can feel when the second thoughts hit him. He slowly ends their kiss, then moves back slightly and takes a deep breath.

"I'm not him, you know," he says, his voice low. "I never was, but I'm really not, now."

So he has noticed. She nods. "I know."

"I don't think you do." He draws back, letting go of her. "And I... I can't do this," he says. "Sorry, I shouldn't have - it's not worth how I feel afterwards."

"Because you're not who I want?" She hesitates for a moment. "What if you were?" she asks quietly.

George's eyes are uncertain, but she can still feel his shields going up. "It's getting late," he says stiffly, looking away from her. "You're picking up the baby tomorrow at noon?"

She puts on her cloak and he walks her to the door. She pauses at the doorway. "You know... I do know you're not Fred." She puts a hand on his arm, struggling to find words to express this in a way he'll understand. He doesn't draw away. "Fred smelled like jasmine and cinnamon and fireworks," she finally says. "You smell like milk and applesauce."

He chuckles slightly. Angelina squeezes his arm, then turns to go.

**ooo000ooo**

For those interested, lyrics and a download of George's lullabye can be found at:

annafugazzi dot livejournal dot com slash 73636 dot html


	7. Chapter 7

**Author Note:** Thank you to tree00faery and breve and CR for your beta work! And thank you to Scribes, mllewolf, nicole, The Dragon's Lady, fandemonium, My Secret Pleasure, Cymbeliness, crazybibliophile, and Passionate with A pencil-FLAME for your lovely reviews!

**Chapter 7**

"Why not move in with George, then?" asks Oliver's girlfriend Morag one day at lunch.

Angelina has just finished complaining about her next door neighbour, who is mostly deaf and all stupid, and who played Bansheepipes loudly until two in the morning last night, then banged on her wall when Freddie woke up at three.

"What?" Angelina asks blearily. George only just took Freddie away about an hour ago and Angelina's been trying to decide whether to go on with her day, or ask Morag if she can nap at her flat. Lee and Oliver are gaping at Morag, who seems unfazed.

"It's not as though Lee's using the extra room," Morag says reasonably. "Why not put the space to use?"

"Are you serious?" asks Oliver in disbelief.

"What? Lee's hardly ever home," Morag points out. "And Angelina hates her place. I don't see the problem."

"It's not a good idea, considering our history," says Angelina stiffly, remembering the kiss she and George shared two days ago, and feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy for Morag, who obviously has no idea how stupid she sounds right now.

"Why, because he's your ex?"

Angelina blinks, not sure she's ever thought of George that way before, but nods.

"You know, I've never understood why you two broke up. What was wrong with going out with him?"

"We weren't really going out," Angelina says brusquely. "I was pretending he was Fred and he was only with me because he... wasn't thinking straight." And damn her, Morag may not have been in the same house as them at Hogwarts but she's been with Oliver for a year and she _knows_ all of this.

"Would it necessarily be the same now?"

"Morag," says Oliver warningly.

"I don't think it's the same situation at all," Morag says to Angelina, ignoring Oliver. "You're not depressed any more. You're not pregnant, you don't have your bitch of a mother messing with your mind, he's got a grip on his life; you're both very different from how you were."

"And they have a _baby_ together," says Oliver impatiently. "It's not as if they can just try things out and if it doesn't work, oh well, no hard feelings."

"They have a baby, yeah," says Morag. "Which means they're going to be dealing with one another forever anyway. Why not deal with one another sensibly? Instead of this 'I want him but I shouldn't' rubbish?"

Angelina's mouth falls open and her sympathy for Morag makes an abrupt exit from the room. "Where the hell do you get that from-"

"Morag," says Oliver forcefully. "Shut it."

Morag glares at Oliver. "Excuse me?"

"He said shut it," snaps Lee. "You don't have a clue what the fuck you're talking about."

Morag switches her glare to Lee. "Where do you get off-"

"I was there, all right?" says Lee grimly. "Them together was not a good idea. Maybe if Ange and Fred hadn't happened first, maybe. Or maybe if they'd got together years after Fred died. But with their history? Not a chance. Now shut it."

**ooo000ooo**

A couple weeks later, Lee still can't quite believe Morag's thick-headedness. Classic Ravenclaw: book smart, less common sense than the average Puffskein. He told George what she had said, in case she decided to ignore Oliver and share her wisdom with George as well. He probably should've left it at that, though, rather than musing out loud, "Who knows, maybe your best bet would be to end up with a girl who didn't even know you before the war."

George had almost physically recoiled from the very thought. "With somebody who didn't even know Fred?" He'd shuddered. "Couldn't. Too weird."

He's probably right. Fred was such a huge part of George, and still is, even now. Unfortunately his selection of girls is rather limited; popular as the twins were, there's not an endless supply of available attractive witches out there who also knew Fred. Not that George really has that much time to date anyone, what with the shop and the baby. Still. Some other girl might drive out thoughts of Angelina.

At least he's not going to act on those thoughts again. He and Angelina are almost friends again, and apparently they've come to an understanding about the whole mess they got themselves into. And not a moment too soon, because it made Lee want to slap both of them silly at the same time as he wished he could take even part of their pain away.

It's far past bedtime as he wearily plods up to the flat. He's trying to remember whose week it is to have the baby but he doesn't even know what day it is. He's really got to do something about this. He's done his time, he's proven himself, and he has bloody well earned the right to be treated better than this at work.

He carefully enters the flat and finds George sleeping on the sofa, with Freddie, also asleep, on his chest. Lee smiles at them, quietly taking off his cloak. He looks up, startled, as Angelina comes out of his bedroom, yawning.

"Lee?" she says, rubbing her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Past one," he says. "Did you fall asleep nursing again?"

"Mm, no," she says, and rubs her eyes. "Freddie wouldn't settle, and I was done in from work, and George said he'd take him for a bit..." She glances at the sofa. "Oh good. I was hoping they'd both fall asleep."

"Wait, won't the baby fall if-"

"George always casts a spell on Freddie so he can't roll off." She fumbles in her pocket and takes out her wand, waving it at them.

"What's that?" asks Lee.

"Cushioning spell on the sofa. So George won't wake up with a crick in his back."

Lee grins at her. "You know, if you'd just put your talents to evil, you could go so far."

Angelina smiles, still gazing at George and Freddie sleeping peacefully. Lee looks a little closer and suppresses a snort. Freddie's wearing a tiny version of the magenta Wheezes robes.

Angelina grins. "Hermione made those. Remember she used to make all that horrible stuff for the elves?" Lee nods. "She's abandoned that but says she still likes making little things. Doesn't he look adorable?"

Lee's not much of a baby person, but he has to admit she's right. "The colour suits him a hell of a lot better than his dad."

"Oh God I know. How they came up with pink, with their hair-"

"Excuse me, _magenta_," Lee interrupts.

"_Pink_. And orange. Painful eye bleed."

Lee laughs softly. "Pretty much, yeah."

Angelina's gazing at George with such affection that Lee suddenly feels like he's witnessing something he shouldn't. Luckily, Freddie stirs and Angelina steps closer to the sofa and gently takes him from George's arms. George's eyelids flicker and he makes a soft sound of protest, and she rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment. He gives her a sleepy smile and turns onto his side. "You've got him?"

"Yeah, I've got him," she whispers. "I'll put him in his crib and go home." She carefully takes the baby to his crib, then picks up her satchel and cloak.

"D'you need a walk home?" George mumbles.

"No, that's all right. Go back to sleep," she says, and he nods, sinking back into sleep almost instantly. She smiles and gently brushes George's hair off his face, then rests her hand on his cheek.

She looks up, suddenly remembering Lee. She bites her lip and puts on her cloak, and leaves.

Morag's right about one thing, thinks Lee as he gazes at George: in their situation, Angelina and George will have to deal with one another for a long, long time, and it would be nice if they could deal with any attraction 'sensibly.' It's a crying shame Angelina treated him so bloody badly, and ruined all her chances with him.

Lee actually feels sorry for her.

**ooo000ooo**

Because George's life is both blessed and cursed, in early summer he gets to be both a beneficiary and one of the victims of a minor environmental disaster in the post-Voldemort wizarding world.

For months Ron and Harry have complained about one of the major headaches for Aurors - and Auror trainees - right now: Dementor fighting. Despite calls to have them reinstituted as Azkaban guards, Minister Shacklebolt has managed to convince the public that Dementors really are far too dangerous and must be culled and then either fully controlled, or totally exterminated.

Since they bred indiscriminately during the War, and are now actively hunted, Dementors have switched to non-human prey: gnomes. Mum had commented that she'd never had such a gnome-free season as the previous year. That's changed now: giddy with the downturn in Dementor numbers and going through a reactive breeding frenzy of their own, they're taking over every magical green space around, and devastating gardens everywhere. Even the Lovegoods are getting sick of them.

George, who had predicted the coming disaster, makes out wonderfully, in a way. Wheezes briskly brews up Gnome No More, a gnome contraceptive spray, and sells it to the Ministry at a bargain rate. Unfortunately the spray is highly revolting. Angelina's building, with its lovely and extensive Herbology greenhouse on the roof, is declared unliveable for the duration of the gnome crisis. Angelina searches for another flat and eventually finds one two floors up from Diagon's owlery - smaller, darker, with a faint scent of owl droppings - but once again, there's a twelve day gap.

"You can use my flat again," says George. "I'll stay at The Burrow."

"Aren't your parents in Majorca while it's being de-gnomed?" asks Angelina.

"Only because they haven't taken a real holiday since Egypt," says George. "It can't be that bad."

George stays at The Burrow one day before the stench and enthusiastic gnome-orgy din defeats him, and then comes back to the flat. And to Angelina.

He and Angelina have repaired their friendship - again - and it's going well. They alternate care for Freddie, they go to Healer's appointments together; they even talk about Fred. The last thing he needs is to complicate that. Again.

So he moves back, but spends a great deal of time out of the flat. He takes the baby to the park, around Diagon, all sorts of places. The baby's very popular; strangers come up and talk to him and admire his tiny little WWW robes, which George must admit really look far better with his colouring than they do combined with George and Ron's red hair and freckles. The baby makes George _very_ popular with the Diagon Alley shopgirls.

Which should be a good thing, but somehow he can't bring himself to care. Instead he spends a lot of time thinking about Angelina, and trying not to think about Angelina. Berating himself for that moment of weakness a few weeks ago, when he'd said something he didn't mean to say and made her cry and immediately wanted to hold her close and make it better, and it felt like the most natural - though insane - thing in the world to kiss her. He tries hard _not_ to recall the sweetness and very wrong rightness of that kiss, the longing in her eyes, the words she said afterwards. He's not highly successful.

So George does the only sensible thing. He goes to Knockturn and buys a potion. It's not an anti-love potion, nor is it like Wheezes' Wand-Wilt, exactly, but it does guarantee to kill off any romantic feelings or obsessions or whatever this is that he's got going for Angelina. Because he can't let himself go down that road yet again.

She lives in his flat for ten days. They're mostly all right for ten days. And then on the tenth day (two days before she's supposed to leave - so close!) she's rooting through his bathroom for potions for the baby - he's teething, again, what joy - and finds the vial from Knockturn.

"George, what's this?" she asks, coming out of the bathroom holding the vial between finger and thumb with distaste.

George swears under his breath. "What does it look like?" he says curtly. "It's a potion."

"From Knockturn Alley."

"I noticed that," says George.

"It's for you," she says.

"I noticed that too."

"Please tell me you're not actually taking a potion from Knockturn."

"Why not?" says George. "I use them all the time."

"_What?_"

"Merlin, not personally, I'm not an idiot! I use them to help develop new products, _after_ I take out dangerous and illegal ingredients."

He'd hoped to derail her, but she can't be derailed. "This isn't for testing, George! This is for personal use! What were you thinking?"

"None of your business, actually," he says, reaching for the vial.

She moves back, looking at the ingredients list on the side. "And this has... fuck, this has some pretty powerful ingredients. Stag hair? Powdered lion claws? We use those on horses and bulls. What the hell are you taking?" Her eyes widen. "Oh my God tell me you're not taking one of those 'enhancing' potions - what kind of moron are you?"

He can't help bursting out laughing, which doesn't seem to amuse her at all. "I am not taking any enhancing thing! Who the hell would I be enhancing anything with?"

"These ingredients either enhance or put you out of commission, you idiot!"

"I happen to know that!"

"So why the fuck are you-"

"Why the fuck do you think?" George snaps. "You're living here for almost two weeks. I don't want anything to happen. Can you understand that? I don't want - I want you to get the fuck out of my flat, or at least the fuck out of my head!" He's trying to keep his voice steady but now it's shaking despite himself and he curses her for being able to do this to him. "But since I can't seem to make you do either one, I'm taking a potion so I won't do anything stupid about it!"

Angelina's stunned. "You-"

"I don't want to feel... what I feel for you, all right? Is that clear enough for you?"

Angelina gapes at him for a minute. Then she looks angry. "Well I don't want to feel what I feel for you either!" she snaps back. "But you don't see me taking bloody dangerous potions to-" and then a wail from the bedroom cuts through their shouting.

George leans against the side of the couch, rubbing his forehead, as Angelina hurries to the bedroom.

He's wired wrong, he thinks as she deals with the baby. That's what the problem is. He knows enough about Muggle electronics to understand that when wires are connected wrong, the wrong electrical spells go to the wrong places and you can end up with some fascinating events called 'short circuits'. Things behaving the way they shouldn't. And that's how George feels: short-circuited. He shouldn't want her, but he does. And he wouldn't, if it weren't for fucking Dead Fred, damn him to hell.

To be fair, it's possible that that may be untrue. If Fred hadn't been there before him, George might have noticed that Angelina was a very attractive girl, might have even gone for her. Instead he trained himself years ago to not think of her that way because she was Fred's girl, and that was that. And with Fred gone...

Then again, it does make a certain amount of sense. Fred liked her. And he's a lot like Fred. Why wouldn't he like her?

And she liked Fred. And, again, he's a lot like Fred. Why wouldn't she like him?

Bugger.

Angelina comes back and leans against the side of the door, gazing at him. "You're being an idiot," she finally says, but the anger in her voice is gone. Now she's looking at him with longing in her eyes and he's devoutly thankful for the potion that makes wanting to respond to her theoretical only. "And I'm sorry," she says, and now he also feels like shit because she sounds like she's on the verge of crying. Again. "I understand. Wish I didn't. Wish I hadn't fucked things up with you." She swallows hard. "You know how I feel about you, but it doesn't make a difference any more, I suppose. I'll... I'll go stay at Morag's. Until my flat's ready for me." She comes closer and puts a hand on his arm and gives him a small squeeze, and then goes out the door.

Maybe she really does want _him_, after all. He can't really... his brain is going all sorts of places, and he really can't - and then the baby cries out again and George wearily goes back to the bedroom and picks him up. He doesn't seem upset; merely filled with a baby's supreme disregard for any pesky little issues people around him might need space to deal with. George sighs and holds him close.

The baby pats his cheek and coos quizzically. "It's all right," George tells him. "Mummy and Daddy aren't really fighting. I don't think. They just... have issues." He closes his eyes and breathes in the baby's scent of milk and sleep, and pats his back. "Some day you'll understand just how fucked up their relationship really is."

**ooo000ooo**

Ron's feeling pretty good for the first time in ages. There's no more gnome assignments at the MLE; George has flat-out refused to let him do more than two shifts a week at Wheezes; the NEWTs results finally came in and Hermione's voice is once again audible to humans instead of only to bats. His niece and nephew are both doing very well - Victoire's smiling and Freddie's learning to crawl - and Teddy Lupin's learning to walk and spends about half his time with his hair pitch-black and a tiny scar on his forehead, though the location of the scar moves. Ginny and Harry are doing well, Percy's got himself a new girlfriend and his expression tends to drift into a goofy smile at random moments, Mum and Dad are back from Majorca tanned and healthy and finally looking like there's some peace in their lives, and all - well, almost all - is right with the world. Even the weather is fairly decent for late summer, not too hot or dry.

And when he starts to feel guilty about being happy, he reminds himself that Fred would probably be relieved to see them all finally getting on with their lives.

Ron's doing so well, in fact, that he's even developing Wheezes products in his spare time. He's invented Walk Like an Egyptian Wands and Duckfeet Danishes, which were highly successful, and Gnome Gummies, which weren't, and he's currently working on a Notice-me-not charm that he's learned from the Aurors, who use it for surveillance or protection of Aurors in the field. He's trying to figure out how to make it useful for people hoping to not be assigned tasks at work meetings, or maybe for party-goers hiding right before a surprise party, but useless to criminals. Fred and George never really got over the fact that their Peruvian Darkness powder was used in the first attack on Hogwarts, so Ron's holding off telling George about it until he's got that part sorted. So when George and Angelina come down the stairs, chatting about Freddie's new developmental milestone, and pass right by him and into the shop, he doesn't make his presence known right away.

"I swear, it wasn't random," George is insisting, his voice pitched low so as not to disturb the baby sleeping on his shoulder. "I heard him."

"He's a bit young to be saying anything, George," says Angelina, chuckling, "and the first word is usually Dada or Mama, not 'pussy'."

"It was, honestly! I'd be so proud of him, except it's not a word anyone uses around him - 'cept maybe Lee - and there were no cats around, and he was pointing at a family portrait at the time so I have to conclude that he meant to say either Pissy or Percy."

Angelina's laughing as they go into the lab. "Won't Percy be thrilled."

Ron hesitates, then decides to go to the lab a few minutes later to test the integrity of the charm. They've left the lab door open a bit, and he slowly pushes it open. They glance right at him but don't see him, and Ron smiles. He stays where he is, as the charm will wear off in a few moments.

They both gaze down fondly at the small sleeping child in George's arms.

"You know, for a serious kid, he is pretty funny," says George. "I'm trying to figure out how to make a copy of Pensieve memories. Charlie's got to see the crawling thing, it's hysterical."

"You haven't laughed at him, have you?"

Ron suppresses a chuckle. Freddie's really having a hard time with crawling, but it's hilarious to watch. He always puts his head down, churns his little legs as fast as they'll go, then raises his head - only to find he's actually farther away from his target than before, because he's been propelling himself backward the whole time. His little temper tantrums over it are pretty funny too, though nobody laughs to his face right in the middle of one.

George caresses Freddie's hair and smiles at him, and Ron glances at Angelina. She's gazing not at Freddie but at George, and the look on her face... Ron is suddenly reminded of Hermione explaining the bewildering jumble of emotions Cho Chang felt for Harry in fifth year. At the time he'd thought she was mental and that nobody could contain so many completely contradictory feelings. Apparently he learned a thing or two from her, because he was able to figure out how Angelina and George were feeling about each other pretty accurately back when they were sleeping together - desire and guilt and confusion and resentment and love and almost-hatred and shame all rolled together - and he's getting a pretty good read on how Angelina's feeling towards George right now. It's somewhat similar, but muted, and regretful. Like she wants something from him, won't do anything about it, and wishes she could.

Then George looks up and they share a smile and it's good to see them both so much freer of all the negative stuff they were pressed down with before. And for one brief, insane moment, Ron wonders, would they really be so wrong together?

He quietly slips away, and goes back to stocking shelves and waiting for the charm to wear off. The shop is mostly empty, though Ron's not really that worried about the customers being startled by objects floating about and now-you-see-him, now-you-don't shop assistants; this is Wheezes, after all.

Half an hour later another customer almost walks through him - again - and Ron realizes the charm really isn't coming off. Bloody Wheezes; you can never really be sure whether or how spells and charms and potions will react with each other in here. Not unless you're George. He tries to _Finite_ it a few times, then gives up and heads towards George.

Bugger, George is going to tease him about his inability to get anyone to notice him, but what the hell. At least it's not as bad as the time he accidentally mixed Concert Candies and **Guaranteed Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher**, and somehow ended up with his freckles bursting into the Weird Sisters' "So I Married a Troll" and sort of jittering in rhythm all over his skin. George had nearly pissed himself laughing, though he did try to make Ron feel better later by telling him Fred had once accidentally mixed two spells and wound up with all his freckles arranged into a perfect grid pattern for about a week.

Ron peeks through the door. George is one-handedly stacking products on the lower shelves, Freddie still asleep in the crook of his arm, Angelina leaning against the work table beside him.

"...and I don't know," Angelina's saying. "He's already got a grandmother. He's got a huge family. It's not like he's lacking anything."

"She was trying to protect you," George says. "I'm not saying you should move in with her again, but she was doing what she thought was best for you. Maybe go see her, and if she apologizes, see where it goes."

Angelina looks uncertain. "But what if... what if she's still angry, or-"

"You can stand up to her, you know," George says, straightening up and putting a hand on her shoulder. "You may want to try to remind yourself that you've done a lot more difficult things. Having the baby. Moving out of your mum's. Coming back to us." He smiles at her. "You've even got two sparkling Ministry-issue pins that show you're a bloody hero." Angelina rolls her eyes.

Ron hesitates at the door. This looks rather private; he should probably come back later.

"You can do it. You're one of the strongest people I know," George tells Angelina, and she smiles back at him and covers his hand with her own, and then her smile falters and she drops her hand.

The atmosphere is suddenly charged.

George hesitates, then slowly brings his hand to Angelina's cheek and she looks up at him, her eyes wide. They gaze at each other questioningly. Ron realizes he's not breathing, his thoughts a jumble of oh Merlin oh bollocks oh George for fuck's sake don't do this again...

George tucks one of Angelina's stray braids behind her ear, and then cups her cheek again. She leans into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her.

No, George, no, Ron's thinking, dread filling him, because George is doing _better_, they're all doing better, they're going on with their lives and it hurt so much to see George in pain and lost and helpless when he and Angelina were carrying on their screwed up relationship while she was pregnant, and-

"I'm not, you know," Angelina says softly, and she looks up at George, her eyes full of regret. "Strong, I mean. If I were, I wouldn't have left you and Freddie in the first place. I wouldn't have ended up in a mental hospital being watched so I wouldn't hurt myself."

George shakes his head. "Everyone has a breaking point," he says gently.

"You don't."

"You think so?" George gives a small chuckle. "Lee and Perfect Percy the Prefect and my baby brother all had to practically hold my hand full time, for months. If they hadn't been here, all the time... I don't know what I would've done."

"They were just - I mean, Lee needed a place to stay anyway, and-"

"You really think Lee couldn't find a flat of his own? You think Percy likes doing the accounts for a joke shop? And Ron loved spending every spare minute he got off Auror Training working here, for over a year? They only did it because they knew I'd fall apart without them."

Angelina gazes at him uncertainly, biting her lip.

"They're the only reason I didn't do anything really stupid after Fred died." George smiles wryly. "Well, that and I was fucking terrified that if I did myself in Fred would spend the rest of our afterlife not speaking to me." Angelina chuckles and leans her face into his hand again and Ron's heart gives a sharp stab. He'd suspected George's thoughts had gone down that path a few times, especially after the Wee Ones accident and some of the things George had said while de-aged, but it's chilling to hear him refer to suicidal thoughts so casually. Ron can only imagine what it would've been like if they'd had to bury George so soon after burying Fred. Suddenly all of the late nights and early mornings and weekends at Wheezes feel like the best and smartest thing Ron has ever done in his life.

George takes a deep breath and Ron's heart gives another thud as George's gaze drops down to Angelina's lips.

Bloody hell George, _no_, thinks Ron, and wishes he could get the hell out of here. He shouldn't have heard any of that, he needs to get away, but bloody hell, he's just got a Notice-me-not charm and not true invisibility, so if he makes any noise George and Angelina might notice him - and then, far too late, he realizes that what he should really be doing is finding some way to distract them so that this tender caring moment doesn't turn into-

George bends down a bit and Angelina tilts her face up, both clearly so nervous Ron can practically see them trembling, and Angelina sighs as their lips touch and she reaches up and runs a shaking hand through George's hair, drawing a bit closer.

They break their kiss and they're both breathing unsteadily, still holding each other, the baby still peacefully asleep in George's arms, and the room is far too small; Ron can't believe he just _stood_ there like a bump on a log and did nothing to prevent this, but in the midst of his shock and dismay he can't help thinking that it all looks almost... right.

Angelina runs her fingers through George's hair again, caresses the side of his face, and clears her throat. "George..." she begins nervously.

"Yeah?"

"I don't... I don't want this if you're going to feel guilty, all right?"

George shakes his head, looking somehow uncertain and determined at the same time. "I'm not going to." He pulls her closer, and they kiss again, and the baby makes a small sound between them. George pulls back and searches her eyes and she smiles at him and cups his cheek again, and they both give a small chuckle when Freddie squirms and blinks his eyes open, looking up and smiling to see both of his parents right next to him.

Ron swallows hard and very, very quietly backs out, now that their attention is focused on Freddie. He doesn't know what he's feeling. Obviously, what just happened is very wrong and a very bad idea. And after all the family's gone through with George this year, Ron knows he should be feeling angry at him, and at Angelina - and at himself for not having somehow stopped it. He knows everything he _should_ be feeling, but can't for the life of him decide what he actually feels.

Which may be fairly close to how George and Angelina are feeling right about now.

**ooo000ooo**

George _doesn't_ feel all that guilty, and it's weird. He's not sure what's going on, but somehow the last few days since that kiss in the lab have felt... well, weird, obviously, and he's not sure what's changed between them and he's not sure that whatever it is, is a positive change... and if any of their friends or family knew what was going on between the two of them they'd quite likely try to have them both committed, but... but somehow it feels right anyway.

It's really not terribly responsible, playing with fire again. But it doesn't feel like playing with fire, not this time. It feels so natural to touch her, want to be close to her, find comfort in her presence. Like when he's with her, he's not half a person so much any more. Which probably isn't right or healthy, but doesn't feel wrong or sick, exactly.

They've not gone terribly far - for one thing, the baby's always on hand to stop proceedings, and how anybody ever manages to make more than one of these little creatures is a mystery to George - but everything they've done so far feels incredibly good.

And then one night the baby's fast asleep, pretty much guaranteed - as far as any baby can be - to sleep for another few hours, Lee is once again not due back till very late, and suddenly their restraint feels artificial and silly. Gentle kisses on the couch have turned into something a lot harder to control. She's pressing against him and he's panting and the couch is too small and he's far too hot and eager to feel her - and it's really not a good idea to listen to his hormones, they've done nothing but get him in trouble, but her breasts are pressing against his chest and her lips are drawing a trail of fire down his neck and everything's tingling and it's been so bloody long since he's got off with anything but his own hand and fantasies...

He pulls away from her, catching his breath.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Come to my room," he says impulsively. They gaze at each other for a moment and then she stands and holds out her hand, glancing at Freddie nervously.

"He's all right, Mum," George chuckles. "I've cast a monitoring spell. We'll hear him."

They go into his bedroom and close the door and he comes back to her mouth, pulling her close, fingers running through her braids as their lips caress each other, and he draws in his breath as she slips a hand down his back and pulls him close and he's so fucking hard, and she's pressing against him and sending sparks flying through him. He doesn't break their kiss as he unbuttons her blouse, tugging it off her shoulders, and moans as she runs a hand down and cups him through his trousers.

"Hang on," he says breathlessly, stilling her hand, and she smirks. "I'm saying that for your benefit, you know," he says and she chuckles.

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. He laughs and kisses her again, and she undoes his belt buckle. He closes his eyes as the pressure eases somewhat and opens them to see her drawing her blouse off. He kisses the side of her neck, behind her ear, cupping her breast and reaching behind to undo her bra.

"Mm, careful," she says, a bit shyly.

"Tender?" he asks.

"A bit, yeah, but... just, erm, not too sure about milk and all that."

He laughs. "I won't complain." He pauses. "Would it be weird to admit it's actually a bit of a turn-on?"

She sniggers. "Considering some of what you've invented in your lab, George, no, I don't think that's weird."

He laughs again. "Ah but those are for laughs," he says, and cups her breast again, nuzzling the side of her neck and gently pushing her back. They fall onto his bed and she pulls him on top of her. "Nobody claims to be turned on by sweets that make their prick turn blue and start to sing funeral dirges," he says breathlessly, and he can't help thrusting against her, the heavy feeling in his groin barely eased by the action.

"Maybe they're just not telling you," Angelina says, and slips her hand into his pants, silencing him rather effectively. He bites his lip, brow furrowing, breath coming in short gasps, and undoes her zip, slipping a hand inside. She moans and closes her eyes and he caresses her, and she's already so wet and his heart is racing and his entire body yearns to take her, be inside her, thrust and thrust and-

"Please," she says breathlessly, and he pauses to help her peel off the rest of their clothing until they're finally naked and pressing against each other. He grabs his wand and starts to hastily cast a contraception spell - then stops, catches his breath, and casts it again, concentrating this time. He sniggers as Angelina reaches for her wand to do the same.

"Better safe than sorry," she murmurs, pulling him down onto her and taking his lips again. He covers her with his body and she parts her thighs and he's nestled against her and oh, _fuck_, he'd forgotten just how amazing this feels. She pulls back and they gaze at each other as he starts to guide himself inside her and then it's too much, and he clenches his eyes closed and rests his forehead against hers and holds her close, sliding home. They rest together a moment with him fully sheathed inside her. It feels somehow closer than he's ever been to her. She runs one hand through his hair, the other caressing his back, and then who knows what it is that she does but she squeezes him, somehow, and he gasps, thrusting almost involuntarily. She moans and moves again, and he wants so much to draw this out but he's caught in her rhythm and thrusting into her, crying out at the pleasure flooding through him, he couldn't stop this now for all the Galleons in the wizarding world, she's gasping and digging her nails into his arm and urging him on, and then he can't hold back any longer and comes with a groan as she keens, tightening around him, and it just goes on and on and leaves him breathless and spent and his entire body tingling with nothing but feeling _good_.

They hold each other, panting for breath, her hands slowly roaming over him. He should probably move off of her, but he's reluctant to leave her and when he starts to withdraw she tightens her arms around him again and effectively stops him, keeping him inside her as long as she can, her hands slowly roaming over his back and neck and hair, his own hands caressing her breasts, her face.

He eventually gets off of her and lies on his side next to her. She clears her throat. "D'you mind," she says nervously. "D'you mind if I stay the night?"

George thinks about that for a while. "No. I don't mind."

"D'you want me to?" she asks.

He smiles at her. "Yeah."

She makes a contented sound and gently pushes him onto his back and starts to settle herself against him, then lifts her head off his shoulder. "Oh. What about Lee?" she asks.

"He'll... I dunno, he'll be fine," says George, yawning.

"Really?"

"Well no, he'll probably have a lot to say," says George, closing his eyes. "I don't care."

She chuckles and settles back down again, slowly caressing his chest, and he lets himself drift a bit, soothed by her soft touches. Eventually he realizes what she's doing, looks down, and chuckles.

"What?" she asks, her voice sleepy.

"You're playing connect-the-dots with my freckles," he says.

She stops, then laughs and resumes her touches. "Didn't even realize I was doing it. Freckle fetish." She suddenly draws her breath in sharply and her eyes fill with tears.

He hesitates for a moment. "What is it?" he asks.

She clears her throat and shakes her head, blinking rapidly.

"What is it?" he asks again.

She glances at him and seems to change her mind. "This won't come out anywhere close to how I mean it," she warns.

"Try anyway."

"I wish... I wish I'd had more than two nights with Fred," she says.

George pulls her closer. "Yeah. Bet he does too, wherever he is."

She nods, and clears her throat again, resuming the aimless wandering of her fingers over his chest from one freckle to another.

"You made him happy, though," says George. "The last week, after you visited."

"Really?"

George smiles, his throat aching a bit. "Godric, he was so completely in love with you," he says, a bit embarrassed that he has to blink away sudden excess moisture from his eyes too. He gently traces the smooth line of her jaw. "I didn't even have the heart to tease him, he was already embarrassed enough."

Angelina smiles. "You? Not have the heart to tease?"

He shakes his head. "Glad I didn't."

"Yeah?"

"Well, no, I wish I had, because I would have if he'd gone on that way much longer. And he would have, if he'd survived the battle. But considering what happened, I'm glad I didn't."

She closes her eyes and so does he, and as he drifts off, her scent filling his senses and her arms around him, he realizes that for only the second time in his life he's going to sleep with another person. Another adult, that is - sharing a crib with Fred, and falling asleep with the baby, don't really count. The first time he ever did this was also with Angelina, but he decides that doesn't really count either, as they were both drunk and it ended with her waking him up the next morning crying.

Somehow he's fairly sure that won't happen tomorrow morning.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author Note:** OK, here's the final chapter of A Bit Unhealthy. Thank you so, so much, **tree00faery** and **breve** and CR! And thank you also to MissJoline, gopha-gurl, Silver Scribes, Cymbeliness, mllewolf, Felicia, My Secret Pleasure, Passionate with A pencil-FLAME, and yesim for your wonderful reviews :)

**ooo000ooo**

The morning after... is certainly memorable for all concerned.

Lee wakes up and wanders into the living room, noticing the baby's still in the living room crib, as he was when Lee came in late last night. Must've fallen asleep there, and George didn't want to wake him. There's probably a monitoring spell cast around his crib. Lee goes into the kitchen quietly, getting himself a tea and rubbing his hand over his face, reflecting that it's very nice to be back home instead of sleeping in yet another hotel bed.

The baby whimpers in the living room, and Lee glances over to him. He's not crying, just making little waking noises. Lee hesitates, then waves his wand at the crib and whispers, "_Finite Incantatem._" He may be just a single bloke who happens to occasionally live with a dad, but he does know which end of a baby is which and he's awake anyway, and George doesn't get to sleep in that often. Lee decides to see if he can get Freddie settled himself.

He hurries to the crib and smiles as Freddie lifts his arms to be picked up. He lifts him out and holds him close for a minute. "Hey, still remember me?" Freddie gurgles, pleased. "Yeah, I'm home. Maybe for a few more days. Maybe longer. These trips are getting to be pure fucking rubbish. Should probably start practicing not swearing around you, shouldn't I? Don't want your first word to get your dad in trouble with your Gram, do we?"

Freddie babbles at him and Lee nods seriously and takes him to the kitchen. "Oh we do, do we? All right, then, can you say fucking rubbish?"

Freddie giggles. "Fu-cking ru-bbish," says Lee slowly, opening the cupboard and looking for MagicMilk. "Maybe we should concentrate on saying Daddy first, though, yeah? So you can tell Gram, '_Daddy_ says fucking rubbish.'"

Freddie giggles and grabs a dreadlock and Lee winces, picking up the MagicMilk. "Bugger. Your dad didn't get enough MagicMilk. Daddy's a lazy disorganized sod, right?" Freddie squeals. "Was going to let him sleep in for a while, but you're going to go through all of that in a minute and then break my eardrums when it's gone. Let's go tell Daddy, all right?"

Lee quickly casts the warming spell on the bottle and gives it to Freddie, who latches on to it with a happy sigh. "And you're soaking wet, too, you little overachiever. Let's go tell Daddy that too, right? We'll say, 'Daddy, you lazy bugger, get your arse out of bed because I'm wet to the gills and about to start screaming the moment I realize this bottle's not got enough milk to feed a dainty little Veelette, let alone a big strapping boy like myself.'" Freddie gurgles contentedly around his bottle. "All right now, here we go," says Lee, opening the door, still talking to the baby. "Daddy, you lazy bugger, get your arse out of bed because never mind we'll just go right back out and wait in the living room till Daddy gets his pants back on, I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to see that." Lee closes the door again and takes a mildly confused Freddie back to the living room.

He holds the bottle, talking softly to the baby, and a few moments later George comes into the living room, barefoot and shirtless, but wearing jeans at least.

"Erm." George clears his throat. "Here, let me," he says, holding out his arms for Freddie and not meeting Lee's eyes. "I'll just, erm, take him to, erm..." He carries Freddie back to the bedroom, and Lee gets himself a cup of tea and tries to not think of the brief images he glimpsed from the bedroom: Angelina's head on George's shoulder, arm across his chest, his fingers threading through her braids, murmuring quietly together, neither of them wearing anything as far as Lee could tell.

George comes back out of the bedroom and joins Lee in the kitchen.

"Sorry about that," says Lee calmly. "You were almost out of MagicMilk."

"Yeah. Forgot to get more." George clears his throat.

"Didn't need it, I suppose. With Angelina here."

"Erm, yeah, about that." George clears his throat again. "It's... it's not like it was before."

"No?"

There's an awkward silence as George gets himself some tea as well.

"Who knows, maybe Morag was right," Lee muses.

George chokes on his tea a bit and looks up at Lee, coughing. "Oliver's Morag? The one you called a clueless cow a few months ago?"

Lee shrugs. "She was a Ravenclaw. Can't be that clueless."

"Ravenclaws know about books. They don't know shit about people."

"Are you trying to argue with me?"

George gives a soft chuckle. "Right. I'll stop now."

There's a long pause. "George, do you know what you're doing?" Lee asks gently.

George shrugs uncomfortably. "Not really."

Lee sighs. What a surprise. "How do you know this'll this be any different from how it was before?"

"Dunno." He pauses. "Some of what Morag said, I suppose. Things are just... different now." And this is a little odd. He almost seems to feel like he needs permission from Lee.

"Fair enough," says Lee. "Not my business, anyway."

"Yeah, it is. Only... it's just... it's not the same as before."

"In what way? Other than she's not pregnant any more?"

George shrugs helplessly. "It's just not."

"All right," Lee says after a long pause. "Well, if this blows up... it won't be pretty."

George nods. "I know."

"I think you're making a mistake," says Lee, though to be honest he's not that sure. George looks away from him miserably and Lee puts a hand on his shoulder, waiting until George meets his eyes once more. "Prove me wrong, mate, all right?"

George nods.

Lee takes a deep breath. "Right. Well." He glances over the kitchen. "I'm going to make some breakfast. D'you think Angelina would like an omelette if I made some?"

**ooo000ooo**

It's nothing like it was before. It's not perfect, but it's not bad.

George still has his doubts. When he's with Angelina, it feels right, but when she's not around he goes back to wondering what the hell he's doing. What the hell _they're_ doing. He still feels like, whether she's thinking of Fred or not, the two of them are still sort of trying to keep Fred alive - Angelina because she sees Fred in him, and George because sometimes he feels like Fred's still here, because he can still, to a small extent, pretend he's Fred when he's around her. And that probably isn't right, exactly, but the fact is he doesn't _want_ to say goodbye and put Fred in the past.

They lie in bed and he looks down, sees the contrast of his pale freckled arm, its faint amber hairs caught by the lamplight, against her dark brown breasts, and wonders whether Angelina sees what she's in front of her or remembers that the view was exactly the same that one night that she lay in Fred's arms. She strokes his hair and avoids the place where his ear should be and he wonders if she's avoiding it because she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable, or because she doesn't want to stop pretending. She cries out his name as she climaxes and he wonders if she's doing it because she was thinking of him, or to fool herself into believing she was thinking of him.

Eventually, of course, the family finds out. That's a lot of fun.

There's one day when he and Ron are in the lab, and Percy's with his new girlfriend in the office finishing up with the shop's quarterly report, and Ron's trying to explain something about a charm for one of the Adult line products that just isn't working right. Percy strolls in just as Ron's getting really impatient, and Ron says, "Well - here, _this_ is what happens," and points a vaguely penis-shaped wand at Percy. Suddenly small squiggly neon letters appear above Percy's head.

Ron's mouth drops open, then he abruptly doubles over with laughter. George frowns, squints at the neon characters, and breaks down as well.

"Oh really?" he manages to choke out between fits of laughter. "Oh, really, Perce?"

"What?" Percy asks, fairly calmly, considering. He's staring at the words above his head, which are alternating between ELEVEN MINUTES AGO and WITH SUSAN.

"Do I want to know what that means?" Percy asks, a pained expression on his face.

George gets himself under control long enough to say, "Anything you want to tell me about my office, Perce? Any chair there I maybe don't want to sit in any time soon?"

"Or did you use the desk?" Ron sniggers.

Percy scowls. "What?"

"What were you and Susan doing, erm, eleven minutes ago?"

Percy's face goes beet-red alarmingly fast. Then he snatches the wand and points it at Ron, but George grabs for it and they both get hit with the spell. TWO DAYS AGO, WITH HERMIONE winks on and off over Ron's head, and that might have caused some good-natured ribbing from George and Percy (because two days ago they were at The Burrow, and Mum's pretty strict about what goes on under her roof) except for the fact that the sign over George says THIS MORNING, then blinks and obligingly spells out, WITH ANGELINA.

Although three redheaded men blushing in the same room is enough to tint the entire place a shade resembling a blazing summer sunset, Ron somehow seems resigned but unsurprised - which actually isn't that surprising - and Percy takes it remarkably well. He merely remarks, "You'll probably want to at least take the names out before you try selling it."

"Right," says Ron, and finally thinks of the charm to stop that part of it. Susan, Hermione and Angelina's names all disappear. Thank Godric.

And at that moment Mum comes bustling in. "Here we are, Percy I'm so glad to see you here, your father and I were - what does that say over your head?"

"Oh, that's the last time he brushed his teeth," Ron says calmly, and George feels a glow of pride for his little brother.

Mum nods, still somewhat distracted, turns to say something to George, and blinks at the sign over Ron. "Ron, for heaven's sake, and you practically engaged to a Muggle dentalists' daughter, too. What would her parents say?"

Ron shrugs sheepishly. "Come to think of it," says Mum, "can I borrow that for a moment? I'd like to cast that on your Dad. I said to him this very morning, you are working too hard and you have got to take care of yourself more--"

"It's not quite ready for the public," George steps in smoothly. "Sometimes it explodes in your hand. Sends, erm, toothpaste everywhere."

Mum and Dad - and everyone else - find out eventually, of course. And although Lee and Ron and Percy seem (mostly) fine - or at least noncommittal - with it, Mum and Dad and Bill and Ginny range from "George, are you sure?" to "Please for Merlin's sake tell me you're joking," to "Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

George knows they're just trying to protect him, but it does make for some strained family gatherings. Angelina stays away from Sunday dinners for a while. Which is fine; she's back in contact with her mother, and although that's strained and superficial so far, she's hopeful. She's got enough on her plate dealing with that.

Summer turns to fall and then the year draws to a close. Ron finishes his Auror training and finally has to leave Wheezes for good, and the baby learns to crawl at astonishing speeds. Lee's working from London a lot more now, but still not home before bedtime most nights; Angelina's owl-scented flat is small and dark and getting chilly, and she starts to forget to go home at night. When her sublet comes up for renewal, she and George decide she won't renew it but will move her things into the Wheezes storage room and stay with him and Lee while she looks for a _nice_ place, rather than just whatever becomes available. She's spending most of her time at their flat anyway.

The day after Angelina moves out of her flat, George leaves the baby at The Burrow and goes to Fred's grave, something he hasn't done in a while, because it's always smacked of sentimentality or morbid obsession or something. He kneels on the cold ground, traces the outline of his twin's name on the stone, and wishes he could really talk to him. Ask him whether this is wise. Ask whether he has any right to feel like he and Angelina and the baby belong together, or whether he's just setting himself up to feel abandoned again when Angelina moves out. Wishes he could ask whether they're doing right by the baby, or being selfish and irresponsible.

He gets no answers.

He comes back to The Burrow and finds Mum cooking and Dad and Ginny sitting cross-legged on the floor with the baby, with a huge collection of Muggle treasures scattered around them, Dad's face lit up as the baby bangs Dad's precious rubber duck against the floor. Dad looks up as George comes in. "He said 'plug'!" he says happily.

"Actually Dad, I think he was swearing," Ginny sniggers.

"No grandchild of mine would ever swear!" Mum calls from the kitchen.

"No, of course not," says Dad, and winks at George, who joins them on the floor. "He's such a good baby," says Dad fondly. "Not sure who he gets that from; you and Fred were both such a complete nightmare at this age, getting into everything. Did you know you ate one of my batteries?"

"Mum said that was Fred," says George, gently taking a rather moist crayon out of the baby's hand and giving him a plastic car.

"Whichever one of you it was, your mum was furious; said you two were trouble enough without adding Muggle energy into the mix." George and Ginny laugh, and the baby solemnly waves the car at Ginny. "Not sure how you ended up with one this well-behaved."

"Maybe Angelina was a good baby," says George, and Dad and Ginny both look uncomfortable.

"Maybe she was," says Ginny stiffly. "She's... a good mother, at least."

Her tone brings new depth to "damning with faint praise", but George doesn't comment on it. It's still an improvement from the last few months. The baby reaches for George and uses George's arm to pull himself into a wobbly standing position for a moment, before coming back down with a thump. Satisfied with his accomplishment, he picks up the car again and waves it at George.

"And you're a good father, too," says Dad. "We're all so proud of you."

George shrugs uncomfortably, not sure how to respond.

"I honestly didn't know if you could do it," says Dad, and ruffles the baby's curls. "I was glad you wanted to try, but I had my doubts."

"I didn't," says Ginny. "I told Harry once that growing up with you and Fred taught me that anything was possible if you just put your mind to it."

George smiles wryly. "Well, I must've forgotten about that, because I had my doubts too. Especially when it looked like Mum wasn't going to help."

"I would've quit school to help you," says Ginny. "I could've done my NEWTs by correspondence."

Dad shakes his head. "You wouldn't have had to," he says softly. "You know your mother. She would've decided on the spot that if George admitted he couldn't do it on his own, that meant he was definitely thinking about the baby's welfare instead of himself, and stepped in to help anyway."

"Inni UP!" says the baby, and Ginny picks him up, beaming at his use of her name.

"I really am proud of you, George," says Dad. He hesitates for a moment. "I know Fred would be proud of you too."

George hopes he's right. And he realizes that Fred may not have given him any answers out at the cold gravesite, but he should've known Fred wouldn't speak through hard ground and stone. Fred isn't there; he's here, within their family and inside George's heart, and maybe that has to be enough.

**ooo000ooo**

"_Merlin_ we need to get a bigger place," says Angelina exasperatedly one morning as she steps on yet another Moldie Voldie doll and it whimpers at her. Toys are scattered all over the floor, victims of the baby's newest favourite game: pushing toy baskets around as walking aids, then turning them over and throwing their contents all over the small, cluttered flat.

George turns to look at her. "What?"

"George, for heaven's sake, he's almost one and he's already outgrowing this place. Not even walking properly yet and he's making chaos. He'll be running about soon and I can't imagine he'll be able to go more than three steps without crashing into a dozen things. Not to mention this place gives me the willies, just thinking about all the explosives downstairs."

"We did shield this place, you know," he reminds her. "And set all sorts of safety wards."

"I know that, I just get worried sometimes."

George tilts his head to the side.

"Look, I'll do all the legwork. I'll try to find someplace close to Wheezes. And yes, I know about Diagon Alley rents, but I happen to know of at least one large flat that's gone empty since the war, and the witch who owns it is waiting for a family to take it over." George is still staring at her thoughtfully, and she frowns. "What is it?"

George chews on his lip. "You're talking about moving somewhere together," he says finally.

Angelina nods. "Yeah..."

"You want to?"

She blinks. "Of course I want to. Why would I be talking about it otherwise?"

George tries to find words. "I just..."

"Wait - do you not want to?" she asks. Her eyes widen slightly and then go blank, and when she speaks again her voice sounds odd. "D'you not want... not want to live with me any more?"

"No - no, that's not what - I mean, yeah, you're right, we do need a bigger place. Only I'd never thought of moving before, that's all."

She nods again uncertainly, and blows out her breath as the baby gleefully throws another Voldie against the wall. She goes to retrieve it and George checks the time and realizes it's almost time to open the shop. He hurries downstairs.

George thinks about the conversation for the rest of the day. So many things float through his mind. The way that they never really decided they were living together; it just sort of happened because she never left. The way they seem to work well together, taking care of the baby and each other. The way he's happier now, with her, than he has been in a long, long time.

The way she looked when she asked if he didn't want to live with her any more.

He doesn't want her to leave, not at all. But part of him wonders about it, still. She's still... not enough, sometimes. There are far too many days when she and the baby and Lee and Ron and Percy and Mum and Dad and everybody are still no substitute for the half of George that is gone forever. Angelina's there for his nightmares, and she takes away some of the ache of waking up from a good dream and - again - coming to terms with the fact that Fred is gone and will never come back, but she can't bring him back, and she can't make his absence all right.

She seems to understand. She leaves George alone when he needs to be alone. She wordlessly holds him when he wakes up with his face damp with tears he doesn't remember shedding. She accepts that sometimes even the most insignificant thing can make him feel achingly empty again, alone and incomplete and lost.

But what does she get out of the arrangement?

By the end of the day he's still preoccupied, and although he tries to perk up a bit over dinner he's uncomfortably aware that Angelina's looking at him quizzically. She doesn't say anything until after she's done putting the baby to bed and comes back to the living room, where George is attempting without much success to figure out what went wrong with the latest batch of Farting Fairy Cakes.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" she says quietly, settling down next to him on the couch.

George sighs and puts his quill and parchment onto the coffee table.

"You've been brooding, haven't you?" says Angelina. "Is it about what I said this morning?"

George clears his throat and fiddles with the ink bottle cap.

"We don't have to move, you know. There's probably expanding charms we can use, or something. Is it that you don't want to move away from Wheezes? Because this is where Fred--"

George shakes his head. "No, no it's not that. This place wasn't ever supposed to be more than a place to store our things while we got the shop started. It's not that."

Angelina nods. "Is it... me?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

George reluctantly meets her gaze, and reaches for her hand. She looks like she's trying not to show how hurt she is, and he can't stand to see that look on her face. "It's not you. It's not anything you've done wrong."

"I thought things were better," she says softly. "With us, I mean. Aren't they?"

"They are," George nods, rubbing the top of her hand with his thumb, trying to figure out how to put his thoughts to words. "We're all right. I think." He thinks for a few moments, then faces her. "The thing is... _I'm_ not all right. And I don't think I ever will be. And you don't have to stay with me out of a sense of... I don't know, pity or whatever it is."

Her mouth drops open. "Pity?" she finally says incredulously.

"Ange--"

Angelina tilts her head to the side. "Do you love me?"

Oh, Merlin. George takes a deep breath, wishing with all his heart that he'd just left well enough alone. "I don't know." Angelina's eyes widen in surprise and hurt, and he doesn't let her pull her hand away but covers it with both of his, not sure how to express himself in a way that won't result in an absolute cock-up. "I mean, obviously, yes, I do, you know that, but..." he stops. "As far as being in love, and wanting to get married and all of that..." He swallows. "You make me less... lonely. I can't think of anybody I love more, other than the baby. It feels like you deserve more, though." Angelina hasn't pulled away yet and the hurt in her eyes has gone away, and that's probably a good sign. "And in any case, it's not just all about how I feel about you, is it?"

Angelina nods. She takes a deep breath, and laces their fingers together. "George." She pauses. "George, Merlin knows I loved Fred. I don't think I ever stopped loving him, and if things had been different, we would've been together. I think." She pauses again, and says carefully, "But I don't think I loved him enough to want to stay with his brother for the rest of my life. I don't think..."

George starts to pull back his hand, and she stops him gently. "I'm not saying this right." She gazes at him. "You're not him. You never were, and you never will be. He was wonderful, and passionate, and funny, and fearless, and you're all of those things--"

"Not fearless," George said quietly. "Not any more."

"No, maybe not that. But you're also... Fred was a boy. He never really got a chance to be a man. You are. You're a wonderful dad. You're responsible, and kind, and gentle, and--" she breaks off, and chuckles. "Well, all sorts of things that both of you made fun of before the war. I love that. I love you. Of course I love that you remind me of Fred, but that wouldn't be enough for me, if that was all it was."

George stares at her.

"So it comes down to you. Am I enough? I'm a reminder of him, and I'm Freddie's mum. Is that enough for you?"

George shakes his head. "That's not all you are," he says. "And anyway that's not the point, Angelina."

"Why not?"

"Because..." he looks away from her and his voice is low. "Some day, if Mum and a lot of other people are right, I'll see Fred again. And. And I want to be able to look him in the face and not be ashamed of how I've treated you."

"What would you have to be ashamed of?"

"If I keep you from being happy," he says. "Not to get into a pissing contest, but I lost my twin. I lost more than half of me. He can't ever be replaced, not for me." He studies the colour contrast in their interlaced fingers. "You lost the first bloke you fell in love with. You _could_ fall in love again. Fred could be just a good memory from your youth, you know? Something that makes you sad, but doesn't tear at you."

"And my son would be the milkman's, then?"

George chuckles. "No, but it wouldn't have to be... you wouldn't have to stay with somebody who'll never be whole again, just because you're hanging on to Fred's memory."

"It's not an option for me, any more than it is for you. I don't see being with you as hanging on to something that'll never come back." She gently pushes him back until he's resting against the back on the couch, and she settles against his side, her head on his shoulder, taking his hand in hers again. He puts an arm around her, holding her close.

"You could fall in love again, Ange," he says.

"What if I already have?" she asks gently, and he looks down at her. "And as for you not being whole... I know better than anybody how not-whole you feel. I'm fairly well aware of how fucked up you are, I think." She absently walks her fingers from freckle to freckle along the back of his hand. "And you're fairly well aware of how fucked up I am. Doesn't mean we don't deserve some kind of happiness. In our own dysfunctional, fucked-up way." She looks up at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Or are you seriously going to tell me that George Weasley is thinking to himself, 'I've got this girl, she makes me happy, I make her happy, we've got a kid together, but our relationship is possibly unhealthy so we'd best back off'? Because you know what Fred would think of that." She rests her head on his shoulder again. "Bloody hell, never mind what Fred would think of that; _you_ know that's rubbish. I know you've changed, but you aren't a completely different person, George." She laces their fingers together again. "So again. Is this enough for you? Am I enough?"

"You're a lot more than I thought I'd have. But--"

"Fred wouldn't want you to be an idiot about this, would he?"

George sighs. "No, probably not."

"You're who I choose, you know," says Angelina. "Not out of pity or nostalgia or anything like that. Maybe the way we started wasn't the wisest thing either of us has ever done. Doesn't mean it can't ever work."

George sighs, not really wanting to go on with this. She can't understand.

She raises her head from his shoulder again and pulls him close and kisses him, and it's chaste and sweet and meant to comfort, he's sure, but he doesn't know who it's supposed to comfort; her or him. He returns the kiss, and it's funny, he can tell exactly when it goes from comfort to passion. She turns toward him a bit more, and he moves her braids aside and kisses the side of her neck, smiling at her small moan and bit of a squirm when he nips her neck lightly, then soothes the bite with his tongue.

He's not sure she's really what he wants or needs, but he can't really think of anybody he wants more. They kiss again, and he caresses her breast and feels her gasp and then she's smirking at him and running her lips down his neck and her fingers down to his trousers. And then suddenly she slips off the couch and kneels on the floor and smirks up at him as he draws his breath in, because she knows this gets him completely helpless and he really can't think of anything else when she's down there. She unbuttons him and reaches in; he's almost fully hard already, and he gasps as she draws her tongue over him and gently takes him into her mouth.

He leans back against the couch, gazing down at her as she takes him in farther than looks comfortable, but he's not about to complain. Her tongue dances over him and around him and soon he's panting, head thrown back, reaching down to touch her hair, and she takes his hand and holds it, squeezes it, as she takes away all his doubts, at least for now, and leaves him gasping for air and not even sure of his own name. He tries to warn her, he's about to - and she just squeezes his hand and doesn't move her head and away. He can't hold back. He can't, it's too powerful, too intense, and he groans as it all rushes through him and leaves him spent and blissful and nothing that feels this right could be possibly be all that wrong.

**ooo000ooo**

"Oh by the way I wasn't able to get the form in to the day care," says George a few weeks later, balancing Freddie on one hip as he and Angela bring their groceries inside.

"Why? What was the problem?"

"Nothing, they just need a parent signature," says George. "Everything else is set up, he starts next week, half days just like we said." He hands her the form and puts Freddie into his high chair while he puts the groceries away.

Angelina nods and signs the form, and blows on the ink.

"Oh right and you'll also need to put me and my parents on the list of people who are allowed to pick him up," says George, getting out a small dish of carrots and waving his wand over it to warm it to room temperature.

"I asked you to do that," Angelina says, a bit irate.

"They said only a parent or legal guardian can do it. Sorry."

Angelina rolls her eyes and makes sure the ink is dry before rolling up the parchment. "Fine, I'll do that tomorrow." Once it's dry, she rolls it up, puts it near her own things at the front of the flat, so that she'll be sure to remember to take it in tomorrow. There's so much going on right now - her new Apprenticeship, Freddie's new school, their ongoing search for a house...

She gazes at George thoughtfully as she comes back into the kitchen. He's bringing Freddie his mashed carrots, chuckling as Freddie reaches for them enthusiastically. Apparently Fred liked carrots; George loathes them. Nobody knew that until Fred died, because Fred would always eat George's share.

"D'you wish you could do it?" Angelina asks.

"Could do what?" he asks, searching for a small spoon while Freddie bangs on the small high chair table, babbling his carrot song.

"The forms," she says.

"Well it's a bit of a pain, you having to go back," he says, making a whooshing broomstick noise as he brings the carrots to Freddie's mouth, not that Freddie needs any encouragement to eat them. "Thought we'd have everything settled today."

"No, I mean help make decisions for him."

"I already do," he says absently.

Angelina blows out her breath in annoyance. "No, I mean, things like signing this. Putting your parents on the list. The legal stuff you can't do."

He gives her a slightly annoyed glance. "Of course."

Angelina nods thoughtfully.

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

"You didn't seem to want to, before," she says carefully. "You didn't seem to care one way or the other."

"You didn't want me to, remember?"

Angelina nods. "Fair enough," she says, gazing at George and Freddie as George patiently makes sure most of the orange food ends up inside their child despite Freddie's best efforts to spread it all over his own face and hair and table.

George seems content, these days. Mostly. The sorrow of loss won't ever leave him; Angelina was well aware of that long before he ever spoke of it out loud. But having her and Freddie in his life, and the shop, seem to help, as much as anything could. She misses the old George, who always seemed to be on the verge of laughter, but the man he is now is far dearer to her than her childhood friend ever was.

But she's seen the way he looks at her and the baby sometimes, as if they could be taken away in an instant. As if he's not really sure this is the life he's supposed to have.

He doesn't even say the baby's name most of the time, and Angelina's not sure if that's because he thinks she named him Fred because she was trying to pretend Fred was still with them, or because she wanted to remind George that Freddie might not be his, or what. He doesn't seem to see that whyever she named him (and, to be honest, Angelina herself doesn't really remember clearly any more), the life they've built together isn't necessarily still based mostly around George's lost twin. Freddie's their son, now, and they're a family, unorthodox as they may seem, and the baby's name is just a name.

There's not much she can do about the reality of the fact that they could, indeed, be gone in a second, for reasons beyond anyone's control. There may be peace in the wizarding world, and wizardkind may be immune to many Muggle diseases and able to survive many accidents that would kill Muggles, but the fact is that even in the wizarding world life comes with no guarantees. But maybe she can help ease his fears, at least to some small degree. And maybe if George knows the baby's his, if he knows he's got as much right to be in Freddie's life as she does, he won't feel like an interloper any more. Maybe he'll be able to see his life with her and Freddie as _his_, and not as something that should have belonged to his brother.

She nods, realizing it's far, far past time when they should have done this.

"All right, then," she says.

George blinks, confused. "All right what?"

"Let's do it."

"Do what?"

"Get him tested. Get this... thing settled."

"What - you mean, settle who his father is?"

"Yeah."

George stares at her. "All right," he finally says slowly.

**ooo000ooo**

"Are you sure you want to sign?" the Birth Register Witch asks George seriously, looking up at him over her glasses. Behind her, a snowy owl blinks slowly on its roost, for some reason reminding George of the owl Harry used to have in school.

"Yeah."

"Once you've signed this parchment, that makes you the father. It is a magically binding legal paternity document. And if the mother has refused to name you for a year," she doesn't glance at Angelina or the baby, "then you can refuse to sign the parchment. No matter what the result of the paternity test is."

"I'll sign it," George says impatiently. "I'd sign it even without doing the test."

The Birth Register Witch's eyebrows go up and she sits back, gazing at him inscrutably. "You can't," she says calmly. "The test must be performed before the scroll can be signed." She turns her gaze to Angelina. "Now, please remember, this scroll _is_ paternity. If he signs this, he _is_ the baby's father, legally and magically, even if the test has shown he's not."

"He's already that," says Angelina. "The test doesn't make any difference to me."

The witch nods and stands up. "Very well. Now, as I've explained, Miss Johnson, this long after conception, there's no guarantee the spell will work. Although - you're Muggle-born, right?" Angelina nods. "I suppose if it doesn't work, you can always do it the Muggle way, I'm told their method can be done at any point--"

"It could," says Angelina. "But it wouldn't work with him. Muggle tests check the father's DNA; they were twins, so it would be identical."

"Oh." The older witch looks like she has about as much of an idea as George does as to what the hell DNA is. "So it's really now or never, is it?"

Angelina nods and the older witch motions George to step closer to her and the baby. "It should work regardless of your state of mind," she says, "but if you are all calm, it will feel less intrusive." The baby's a little fearful of the strange witch, but when he sees that all she's doing is waving her wand over the three of them and saying a few incantations, he settles and chews on a biscuit that Angelina's brought him to keep him calm during the proceedings. George feels something like a breeze over his face, and shivers slightly.

Finally the witch puts her wand down and nods, and turns to Angelina. "Traditionally the result is told to the mother in private, away from the hearing of the gentlemen who may be the father. But in this case, if you'd like, we can--"

Angelina gets up and hands the baby to George, and the other witch follows her into the other room. They come out a few minutes later and the Birth Register Witch shows them where to sign the parchment. They both sign, as the baby enthusiastically chews on a rather gummy biscuit.

So. That's that.

George doesn't know what to think or feel. He's the father, Fred only the uncle, and that's the end of any wondering.

Part of him is relieved. The baby's his, really his. And now he knows, and everyone will know, and he'll never have to wonder again if he's really got a right to think of him as his son.

Part of him is devastated. Fred never had a son; now he'll never have a son. George is already the baby's father in every way that really matters, and the only way that Fred could have had any claim to fatherhood is now beyond his reach forever.

He realizes Angelina's watching him closely.

"You all right with this?" he asks her, and she nods slowly. The Birth Register Witch seals the parchment and leaves the room. The baby waves at the owl in the corner, and the owl blinks at him lazily.

"George," says Angelina quietly.

"Yeah."

"Is it important to you?"

"What?"

"Knowing?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He takes the soggy biscuit from the baby and looks around for a rubbish bin. "Erm, thanks for going through with it."

"George," Angelina says again. He looks up. "D'you want to know for sure?"

He blinks. "I already do."

"No, you don't. You signed before knowing."

George frowns. "But you just signed, and she'd just told you--"

"No." She shows him an envelope. "I had her write the answer and put it here. We just had to do the test in order to be able to sign the scroll, but you said the answer didn't matter to you. And I realized it didn't matter to me either." She gazes at him seriously. "But if you want to know, the answer's right here."

George looks at the envelope.

"Do you want to know?" he asks.

"Not really."

"I don't either."

She stares at the envelope. "They can't do it again, you know," she says.

"I know."

She takes out her wand and puts the envelope on the table before them. She looks up. "What do you think?"

George takes out his wand, and they both point to the envelope and quietly intone, "_Incendio._"

Angelina takes the baby, and they leave the office. Partway down the street George stops and takes Angelina into his arms, and holds her and their child close. He can't really express what he's feeling right now, but the amazing, beautiful woman he's so bloody lucky to have by his side can probably guess most of it anyway. She gently strokes his hair and says nothing. Eventually he's able to pull himself together and the three of them continue their way home, and he wishes he could tell her just how much he loves her.

She makes him feel sorry for Fred, for all that he's missed, and George neither curses her nor thanks for it, because it's nothing she has much control over. And it may not be right, what they've got. It may be imperfect, flawed, and possibly a bit unhealthy. But it works for them. It works for the baby.

For Freddie.


	9. Epilogue

**Author Note:** This is the Epilogue of A Bit Unhealthy. It's being** posted at the same time as Chapter 8.** If the last thing you remember reading is George and Angelina going to sleep together, **you have skipped Chapter 8** and will probably be somewhat confused by this epilogue ;)

Thank you a whole heck of a lot, to **tree00faery** and **breve** and CR, for all your betanesses :) :) :)

**ooo000ooo**

_Angie! Sorry, love, I have to leave, but I didn't want to go before talking to you. You look gorgeous!_

_Not my doing; there's a SlimCharm on the dress._

_Brilliant nonetheless! Oh, hello, Mrs. Weasley!_

_Hello, Katie, you look lovely, dear. Oh - are you leaving already?_

_I'm afraid so. Sorry, I'd love to stay longer, but with work and all..._

_Well thank you so much for coming, dear. It was lovely to see you._

_You're welcome. (pause) So Mrs. Weasley, I take it you got over being upset that they decided not to have a huge do?_

_Well I suppose there wasn't time to plan much more, what with... erm. And it was perfectly lovely despite being so simple. Besides, I expect Harry and Ginny will be doing this soon enough. We'll have a proper event then._

_We will?!_

_Maybe Percy will let you go all out for him and Audrey._

_If the two of them can keep their hands off each other long enough for him to pop the question!_

_Ron! In any case, Ginny, dear, do you really think I'd let my only daughter not have a big wedding?_

_We may have to elope, Harry. Or maybe you can get me up the duff--_

_Ginny!_

_Mummy up the duff!_

_Freddie! For heaven's sake, George, where did he learn--_

_Oi, I didn't teach him to say that, Mum!_

Daddy _say Mummy up the duff!_

_I may have to kill you, Lee._

_Oi, that'd put a bit of a damper on things, don't you think? Best Man killed by groom? And after all the nice things you just said about me in your speech?_

_I take them back. Wanker._

_Speaking of speeches. (pause). D'you think it's time?_

_(pause) Yeah. All right, yeah, may as well._

_All right, this is the speech everyone knew was going to come at one point or another, may as well do it now. (pause). So, I already did a speech for Lee, and like I said, Lee's been a brilliant Best Man, although really, mate, I still say there was no need for the troll strippers. And I don't know anybody who could've dealt better with some attempts to make this a much bigger ceremony than Angelina and I wanted. A propos of nothing at all, Mum, Percy says he's got some_ wonderful _news for you._

_We all know, though, that if Fred hadn't died, he would've been standing up here too, though it's not certain whether he would've been Best Man or groom. Either way, I would've been proud to stand by his side._

_Fred was funny, he was brilliant, compassionate, and a right pain in the arse. He could make just about anything seem funny, and any impossible, insane thing feel possible, and make it work out in the end._

_There was one thing he wasn't able to make possible, though. He was in love with Angelina, and he hoped to make a life with her. He didn't get to do that. Although he did get to literally die laughing, surrounded by people who loved him, fighting to make a better world, and I know he would've thought it the perfect way to go except for the indignity of being done in by masonry._

_Going on after him wasn't easy for any of us. We all knew, though, that he would've come back to haunt us if we squandered what he won for us. And the only way to honour his death and his life was to live the lives we had, and be grateful to him that we had them._

_So. Here's a toast. Fred, wherever you are, thanks for still somehow being here with us today. Thanks for giving me the best childhood anyone could've had. For being Angelina's first love. For giving us Freddie, one way or another, and for pushing us together, whether you meant to or not._

_(pause)_

_And don't laugh at Mum and me or, well, all of us, actually, for still not being able to talk about you without breaking down. (pause) We miss you, mate. Always will._

_(pause)_

_But. We'll never forget you, and we'll be thankful for the years we had you, and try to accept that we couldn't have more of them._

_Right, everyone, glasses up: to Fred._

_(pause)_

_Cheers, mate._


End file.
